L  E  AVE  S 


O  S  E 


5 

u 

*- 


• 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 


B.  H.  BI.ACK\VI,I .1.,     1 

Hook-,  tiler, 
SQ&  51,  Hr.».t<l  St..  Oxford.  | 


Tl 


LEAVES  OF  PROSE 


LEAVES  OF 
PROSE 

BY  ANNIE  MATHESON 
WITH  TWO  STUDIES 
BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 


STEPHEN    SWIFT 

AND  COMPANY  LIMITED 
TEN  JOHN  STREET 
ADELPHI  MCMXII 


BALLANTYNE  &  COMPANY  LTD 

TAVISTOCK  STREET  COVENT  GARDEN 

LONDON 


PAGE 

CHRISTMAS  DAY  i 

LONDON  IN  SPRING  2 

SORDELLO  AT  THE  EAST  END  7 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS,  R.A.  17 

FEBRUARY  FAIR-MAIDS  18 

PHILOSOPHY,  POETRY  AND  THE  LABOUR  PARTY  22 

ELECTION  OF  THE  LONDON  COUNTY  COUNCIL  29 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  PEOPLE  30 

LOAVES  39 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  STATE  41 

SNOWDROP-TIME  44 

DAFFODILS  45 

THE  FEEDING  OF  NECESSITOUS  SCHOOL  CHILDREN  49 

THYRSIS  IN  A  LONDON  SQUARE  55 

THE  MEMORIAL  TO  MRS.  BROWNING  60 

A  FLOWER  FOR  MRS.  BROWNING'S  GRAVE  66 

MRS.  BROWNING  AS  A  SOCIAL  REFORMER  71 

A  SONG  OF  NOBEL  THOMSON  79 

THE  GLEAM  80 

A  FRAGMENT  83 

THE  OXFORD  PAGEANT  AND  RUSKIN  HALL  89 
NOTE  ON  "  SILAS  MARNER  "  FROM  THE  TEMPLE 

CLASSICS  96 

THE  PROFFERED  SHIPS  106 

IN  MID-MAY'S  GLORY  108 

INTRODUCTION  TO  "  SAYINGS  FROM  THE  SAINTS  "  1 1 1 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE  117 

AN  EASTER  REVERIE  131 

FORGOTTEN  BOOKS  135 

ROSES  144 

BETWEEN  THE  RAINS  145 

NEIGHBOURING  GARDENS  148 

APPRECIATION  OF  "SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE"  154 

v 

'  "    437 


PAGE 

"  GOING  INTO  THE  SILENCE"  169 

A  HOLIDAY  ON  DARTMOOR  177 

L'ENVOI    TO    THE    THREE    FOLLOWING    SONNETS  183 

To  THE  PEACEMAKER'S  MEMORY  184 

AN  EARLY  VICTORIAN  NOVEL  186 

THE  CHILDREN  IN  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  STORIES  219 

THE  WORDS  AND  WAYS  OF  CHILDREN  224 

IN  EARLY  AUTUMN  232 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW  234 
YOUNG  ART  AND  MY  LITTLE  RED  RIDING 

HOOD  237 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  LONDON  AND  SOUTH  WESTERN 

RAILWAY  242 

FROM  A  COTTAGE  WINDOW  246 

His  SOLILOQUY  250 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI  251 
THE  IDEAL  WOMAN  AS  WORDSWORTH  AND 

SHELLEY  SAW  HER  257 

FOR  THE  COMMON  CAUSE  261 

A  RECURRENT  QUESTION  263 

SNOW-WHITE  269 

IN  PRAISE  OF  "ADAM  BEDE  "  274 

ST.  PAUL'S  CHIMES  283 

TWO  STUDIES  BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 

A  SERVANT  OF  THE  EARTH  289 

GEORGE  MEREDITH  301 


VI 


THE  publishers  desire  to  thank  Mr.  Henry  Frowde, 
Messrs.  Methuen,  and  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent,  for 
permission  to  reproduce  Miss  Matheson's  essays 
from  the  World's  Classics,  The  Temple  Classics,  and 
the  Little  Library ;  and  Mr.  Eveleigh  Nash  for 
allowing  them  to  reprint  her  Introduction  to 
Sayings  from  the  Saints  ;  and  to  acknowledge  the 
courtesy  of  the  Contemporary  Review,  Athenaeum, 
Journal  of  Education,  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  Westminster 
Gazette,  Mothers  in  Council,  Guardian,  Queen, 
Weekly  Sun,  and  Torkshire  Post,  for  permission  to 
reprint  many  of  her  poems  and  articles ;  as  well 
as  the  living  authors  from  whom  she  has  made 
occasional  brief  quotations  in  her  essays;  also 
such  holders  of  copyright  as  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder, 
Messrs.  Burns  &  Gates,  Messrs.  Constable, 
Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus,  and  Mr.  David 
Douglas,  for  the  right  to  use  such  quotations 
as  those  from  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  from 
Arthur  O'Shaughnessy,  from  Swinburne,  from 
George  Meredith,  and  from  the  Diary  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott. 

They  further  desire  to  thank  Miss  May  Sinclair 
for  permitting  them  to  append  to  this  volume  two 

vii 


essays  by  her  which  had  originally  been  intended  for 
By  Divers  Paths*  a  companion  volume  about  to  be 
re-issued  by  the  said  publishers  of  Leaves  of  Prose, 
who  further  wish  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of 
the  periodicals  in  which  Miss  Sinclair's  articles  first 
appeared.  If  in  the  above  acknowledgments  there 
has  been  any  oversight,  it  is  inadvertent  and  will 
be  much  regretted. 

*  "  By  'Divers  Paths  " — edited  by  Miss  Matheson>  who  con- 
tributes 42  of  the  essays  and  poems — contains  two  fine  sonnets  by 
Miss  May  Sinclair,  several  charming  studies  of  South  African 
life  by  Miss  Eleanor  Tyrrell,  poems  by  Mrs.  Maude  Egerton  King, 
and  essays  by  <Dr.  C.  //.  Herford,  T>r.  Greville  MacT>ona/d,  and 
Mr.  C.  C.  Cotlenll. 


Vlll 


CHRISTMAS  DAY 

THERE  is  no  word  save  One  to  tell 
The  secret  of  this  world  of  pain  ; 

Its  flame  of  love  that  conquers  hell, 
Its  anguished  loss  that  yet  is  gain. 

One  only  Word  since  time  began 
May  utter  what  we  dumbly  feel, 

And  thro'  the  infinite  in  Man 
The  infinite  in  God  reveal. 

He  is  our  Christmas  Joy,  our  Hope, 
Our  Immortality,  our  Strength — 
The  Word  of  God,  for  whom  we  grope 
Thro'  all  the  stumbling  journey's  length. 

Oh,  when  at  last  unveiled  we  see 

The  Face  for  which  till  death  we  long, 

Then  shall  we  know  that  Word  to  be 
Our  Life,  our  Rapture,  and  our  Song  ! 


LONDON  IN  SPRING 


commotion  of  the  spring  is  in  heaven  and 
earth,"  wrote  John  Addington  Syrnonds,  u  a  rest- 
lessness like  the  approach  of  some  great  delivering 
passion  "  ;  and  what  Symonds  felt  among  the 
snowfields  of  the  High  Alps,  we,  with  diversities 
of  manifestation,  have  been  feeling  here  in  London. 
Full  of  smoke  and  din  is  the  great  city  ;  defaced, 
even  on  the  surface  of  it,  with  hideous  placards, 
foul  breathing-blots  of  underground  railways, 
squalid  ruck-heaps  of  poverty  and  ruin  ;  but  how 
possessed  with  the  great  poem  and  pageant  of  life, 
how  thrilled  and  penetrated  by  the  pathos  of  our 
struggling  and  baffled  humanity,  comedy  and 
tragedy  jostling  one  another,  yet  with  barely  time 
to  laugh  or  weep  in  the  incessant  contest  for  bread 
and  standing-room.  No  artist,  though  he  starve 
there,  can  fail  to  perceive  something  of  the  strange 
and  touching  fascination  of  this  sombre  and  alluring 
city,  stained,  disfigured,  blackened,  yet  beautiful 
with  a  beauty  that  moves  the  heart  and  haunts 
the  mind,  and  reaches  the  deep  hiding-places  of 
the  soul.  It  has  in  it  some  undefinable  quality 
of  sweet  unexpectedness,  some  paradoxical  charm 
of  old  and  new  commingling,  some  mystic  hint  of 
the  eternal  and  the  divine  in  communion  with  the 
human  and  the  sorrowful.  There,  in  the  midst 
of  the  hurrying,  tramping  feet  of  the  thousands 
of  eager  wayfarers  who  encircle  with  their  un- 
heeding processions  the  ever-open  church  of 
2 


St.  Paul's,  the  great  dome  keeps  a  heart  of  silence 
and  of  rest  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  of  noon,  and, 
in  the  sky  of  sunset  or  of  sunrise,  lends  emphasis 
to  the  loveliness  of  the  glowing  clouds  by  some- 
thing nobly  human  in  its  unembarrassed  outline. 
There,  the  pigeons,  with  their  soft  yet  opal-tinted 
plumage,  fly  about  the  steps  of  the  cathedral,  and 
haunt  the  ancient  Guildhall.  There,  past  the  feet 
of  the  old  Abbey,  the  shrine  of  literature  and  art 
and  a  thousand  historic  memories,  past  the  Houses 
of  Parliament  and  the  Temple  Gardens,  the  ancient 
river — the  river  sung  by  Chaucer  and  by  Milton, 
and  by  Shakespeare  himself — flows  dreamily 
onward  in  the  midst  of  all  the  restless  sorrow  and 
sin  and  hope — flows  under  its  succession  of  en- 
chanted bridges,  consecrated  anew  by  the  poets 
and  the  novelists  of  this  complex,  hurrying  cen- 
tury, till  it  reaches  the  thronging  ships  in  the 
docks,  where  Labour  toils  unceasingly  under  its 
heaviest  burdens.  There,  in  the  graveyards  and 
the  parks  and  the  open  spaces,  the  little  children 
take  joy  of  the  flowers  that  they  may  not  pluck, 
and  the  birds  make  their  lovely  jargoning,  and 
the  grass  grows  green  again. 

London  is  always  beautiful,  but  never,  surely, 
so  pathetically  beautiful  as  in  spring.  And  the 
spring  is  coming — is  coming  at  last.  The  u  com- 
motion "  that  precedes  her  coming  has  long  been 
making  noisy  prelude  to  the  coming  melodies, 
like  the  half-irritating  tuning  of  the  instruments 
in  some  great  orchestra.  Sleet  and  rain  we  had, 
and  wind  and  sunshine,  after  the  long  frost-bound 
winter ;  and  many  days  ago  now  the  fragrance  of 

3 


OF 

the  palm-willows  was  already  on  the  air,  floating 
in  from  the  railway  sidings  at  Child's  Hill  and 
Hendon,  where  they  scatter  their  sweets  as  lavishly 
as  in  distant  country  lanes.  Soon  the  travellers 
between  London  and  Richmond  will  find  them- 
selves speeding  through  seas  of  white  blossom,  in 
the  orchards  on  which  they  look  from  their  rail- 
way windows.  Already,  the  great  commons  of 
Chislehurst  and  Wimbledon  and  Wandsworth 
must  be  loading  their  breezes  with  the  delicious 
scent  of  growing  trees  and  reawakened  turf  and 
tiny  flowers  hidden  in  the  grass ;  and  in  the  deeps 
of  Epping  Forest  the  fairy  wood-sorrel  must  be 
once  more  carpeting  whole  acres  with  its  frail 
bewitching  loveliness.  The  uplands  of  High 
Barnet  and  the  great  beeches  in  the  Hadley 
Woods  must  be  stirring  with  new  life  and  colour, 
and  merry  with  the  song  of  birds.  And  here  in 
town  the  joy  goes  on  apace  ;  already  the  lilacs  are 
a  mist  of  green  leaf,  and  from  my  top-floor 
window  at  the  back  of  a  little  thoroughfare  among 
London  shops,  I  look  through  the  bare  branches 
of  an  ancient  mulberry-tree  in  the  garden  of  my 
neighbour  the  haberdasher,  and  see  that  the  young 
"forest  tree"  behind  it  is  aglow  with  April 
verdure.  The  leaves  of  the  sycamore  have  broken 
their  pink  sheaths,  and  many  of  the  laburnums 
at  Belsize  and  Hampstead  have  unfolded  their 
button-like  buds  in  neatly  cut  leaves.  For  a  full 
week  the  almond  trees  have  been  out  along  the 
Bayswater  Road,  and  the  fairest  of  them  all  is  one 
which  grows  within  a  corner  of  area-railing,  where 
such  a  tree  might  seem  impossible.  They  are  mostly 

4 


wan  and  pale  this  year  ;  but  perhaps  their  lovely 
sisters  on  the  south  side  of  Kensington  Gardens 
may  blush  in  rosier  buds  and  petals  against  that 
pearly  blue  of  sky  which  is  their  true  background. 
Nor  is  it  only  in  Kensington  Gardens  that  this 
dainty  and  lustrous  blossom  clothes  the  bare  black 
branches  with  colours  of  heaven.  In  the  garden 
of  many  a  suburban  street,  in  many  a  sordid  and 
smoky  corner,  by  many  a  forgotten  grave  in 
London's  vast  outlying  burial-grounds,  the  almond 
tree  is  blossoming,  and  He  who  "  is  the  perfect 
Poet"  is  speaking  to  the  hearts  He  has  fashioned. 
It  is  in  its  symbolism  like  that  other  earliest 
blossom  of  which  Browning  wrote  : 

"  The  blackthorn  boughs, 
So  dark  in  the  bare  wood,  when  glistening 
In  the  sunshine,  were  white  with  coming  buds, 
Like  the  bright  side  of  a  sorrow." 

In  the  lanes  where  the  woodbine  leaves  are 
showing  the  brown  bloominess  on  the  backs  of 
their  unfolding  leaves,  where  the  little  green  buds 
of  the  hawthorn  are  swelling  among  the  newly 
opened  foliage,  and,  like  a  miniature  dandelion- 
clock,  the  coltsfoot  is  making  patches  of  white 
down  in  the  wayside  grass,  spring  breathes  a 
thousand  tender  memories  of  the  days  that  are 
gone.  The  white  violets  will  soon  be  budding  in 
their  leafy  coverts,  the  celandines  already  are 
starring  the  fields ;  but  it  seems  that  the  gaiety 
of  the  celandine  and  the  fragrance  of  the  violet 
have  a  sorrow  in  them,  now  that  death  has  stolen 
from  us  so  many  of  those  "  dear  familiar  faces  " 

5 


OF 

that  were  with  us  in  the  meadows  and  the  byways 
of  our  vanished  youth. 

Yet  when  the  springtime  comes  to  us  amid  the 
heart-throbs  of  a  great  city,  where  human  needs 
and  aspirations  are  crying  to  us  on  every  side, 
then  is  there  new  hope  in  the  sunlight,  new 
vitality  in  the  blossom-laden  wind,  new  love  in 
the  very  whispering  of  the  churchyard  grass. 
That  great  and  ancient  river  which,  through  the 
long  frost,  lay  bound  and  deadened  under  huge 
blocks  of  ice,  while  the  sea-gulls  hovered  hungrily 
above  it,  is  once  more  bearing  its  accustomed 
freight,  and  flowing  more  genially  eastward  under 
the  bridge  which  George  Eliot  has  made  immortal. 
The  sunshine  is  upon  it,  the  warm,  common, 
life-giving  sunshine.  The  brotherhood  of  the 
world  is  in  the  air,  and  every  sense  is  quickened 
with  the  joy  of  a  welcome  release  from  the 
captivity  of  a  long  and  bitter  winter. 

"  Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new." 

In  such  a  mood  we  ask  no  idle  sentimental 
dreaming  over  the  cherished  past  :  our  hearts 
echo  Tennyson's  song  of  wages — we  demand  no 
other  guerdon  than  "  the  glory  of  going  on,  and 
still  to  be." 


SORDELLO  AT  THE  EAST  END 

BROWNING  says  of  Bordello : 

"  He  felt 

An  error,  an  exceeding  error  melt — 
While  he  was  occupied  with  Mantuan  chants, 
Behoved  him  think  of  men,  and  take  their  wants, 
Such  as  he  now  distinguished  every  side, 
As  his  own  want  which  might  be  satisfied, — 
And,  after  that,  think  of  rare  qualities 
Of  his  own  soul  demanding  exercise." 

Some  such  motto  might  well  be  written  above 
the  hearth  of  the  University  Settlements. 

This  indeed  is  the  idea  which  Westcott  ex- 
pressed in  his  own  forcible  prose  when  he  said : 
"  The  question  which  we  must  always  be  striving 
to  answer  is,  *  How  shall  I  do  my  part  in  this 
common  life  in  which  I  share  ? '  Sooner  sor  later 
—here  or  hereafter — when  our  eyes  are  opened,  I 
believe  that  we  shall  see  that  all  the  sorrows  and 
sins,  which  fill  us  with  grief  and  almost  with 
despair,  touch  ourselves  nearly,  and  are  indeed 
parts  of  our  own  life  for  which  we  in  our  measure 
are  responsible/' 

And  it  is  with  a  certain  pleasant  sense  of 
paradox  that  we  note  how  a  poem  often  derided  for 
its  obscurity  has  for  years  been  teaching,  despite 
the  bewilderment  of  its  gorgeous  Italian  colouring 
and  the  complex  harmonies  which  half  conceal  its 
concentrated  unity  of  meaning,  a  doctrine  which 

7 


OF 

might  well  be  made  the  text  of  a  popular  move- 
ment of  the  day,  a  movement  of  which  its  enemies 
have  said  that  it  is  in  danger  of  losing  its  true  out- 
line in  the  clouds  of  talk  which  encircle  it. 

But  as  far  as  the  east  is  from  the  west  is  the 
temperate  enthusiasm  of  the  University  Settlers 
from  the  imitative  sentiment  of  the  gossips  who 
discuss  it,  and  who,  without  any  actual  expendi- 
ture of  time,  or  strength,  or  money,  yet  wrap 
themselves  in  a  vague  philanthropic  intention. 

The  paradox,  like  other  paradoxes,  is  exactly 
what  all  but  the  narrow-minded  would  desire. 
That  the  purpose  of  such  a  movement  should  be 
in  accordance  with  the  teaching  of  a  great  poet 
who  through  years  of  popular  neglect  patiently 
preached  his  gospel  to  the  few  who  would  listen,  is 
precisely  what  a  believer  would  wish  and  expect. 

The  author  of  "  Obiter  Dicta  "  assured  us  that 
"  Faith  may  be  well  left  alone,  for  she  is,  to  give 
her  her  due,  our  largest  manufacturer  of  good 
works,  and,  whenever  her  furnaces  are  blown  out, 
morality  suffers." 

Happily  this  commercial  island  of  ours  has 
never  been  quite  without  the  poets  and  prophets 
who  rekindle  such  furnaces  and  tend  them  with 
unconscious  passion.  Nor  is  it  always  those 
faggot-pilers  who  are  popularly  regarded  as  the 
briskest  workmen  who  really  do  the  most  to  keep 
the  flame  at  a  white  heat. 

Who  shall  say  how  many  poets  of  lower  rank 
have  been  illumined  in  some  crucial  moment  by 
the  burning  truths  which  now  and  then  flash 
from  Browning's  "Sordello"'?  Who  shall  say  into 
8 


SO^DSLLO  <A<r  me  e^tsr 

how  many  towns  and  cities  these  lesser  men  have 
carried  the  sacred  flame  which  they  borrowed 
from  a  book  the  world  has  not  cared  to  read  ?  It 
is  a  story  of  the  temptations,  disciplines,  failures, 
through  which  Sordello,  the  young  Italian  versifier, 
is  taught  at  last,  and  just  too  late  for  this  life,  to 
recognise  the  mission  of  every  true  poet  as  that 
of  a  God-inspired  friend  of  the  people,  a  divinely 
kindled  lover  of  humanity.  That  it  should  seem 
obscure  to  many  English  readers  is  at  once 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  it  presupposes 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  Italian  history.  To 
Browning  the  typical  reader  is  what  the  typical 
school-boy  was  to  Macaulay.  He  credits  him 
with  his  own  encyclopaedic  knowledge,  his  own 
powerful  and  emotional  intellect,  his  own  faculty 
for  seeing  round  corners  without  moving  an  inch 
from  the  central  standpoint,  his  own  vivid  over- 
leaping mode  of  reasoning,  at  once  so  elliptical, 
parenthetical,  and  cautiously  questioned. 

That  "  Sordello"  can  at  moments  be  musically, 
convincingly  lucid  no  one  can  doubt  who 
remembers  the  few  master  touches  by  which  the 
artistic  temperament  is  made  to  breathe  before 
the  reader  in  the  following  passage : 

"a  soul  fit  to  receive 
Delight  at  every  sense ;  you  can  believe 
Sordello  foremost  in  the  regal  class 
Nature  has  broadly  severed  from  her  mass 
Of  men,  and  framed  for  pleasure,  as  she  frames 
Some  happy  lands,  that  have  luxurious  names. 


OF 

You  recognise  at  once  the  finer  dress 

Of  flesh  that  amply  lets  in  loveliness 

At  eye  and  ear,  while  round  the  rest  is  furled 

(As  though  she  would  not  trust  them  with  her 

world) 

A  veil  that  shows  a  sky  not  near  so  blue, 
And  lets  but  half  the  sun  look  fervid  through. 
How  can  such  love  ? —  .  .  . 
.  .  .  fresh  births  of  beauty  wake 
Fresh  homage,  every  grade  of  love  is  past, 
With  every  mode  of  loveliness  :  then  cast 
Inferior  idols  off  their  borrowed  crown 
Before  a  coming  glory.     Up  and  down 
Runs  arrowy  fire,  while  earthly  forms  combine 
To  throb  the  secret  forth ;  a  touch  divine— 
And  the  scaled  eyeball  owns  the  mystic  rod ; 
Visibly  through  his  garden  walketh  God." 

More  touching  to  some  of  us  than  the  just- 
quoted  description  of  a  youthful  poet  are  the 
powerful  lines  in  which  Browning  himself,  speak- 
ing for  once  in  his  own  person,  chooses,  as  the  life- 
long mistress  of  his  heart,  Humanity  in  its  most 
hungry,  tattered  and  forlorn  aspect,  declaring  that 
it  is  just  the  supreme  need,  the  unsatisfied  craving, 
the  forlorn  wretchedness,  which  have  won  his  love. 

"  Peasants,  queens, 

Take  them,  made  happy  by  whatever  means, 
Parade  them  for  the  common  credit,  vouch 
That  a  luckless  residue,  we  send  to  crouch 
In  corners  out  of  sight,  was  just  as  framed 
For  happiness,  its  portion  might  have  claimed 
As  well." 
10 


SOT^DSLLO 

It  is  impossible  to  quote  at  length  the  marvel- 
lous passage  in  which  he  symbolises  the  suffering 
he  yearns  over,  pausing  at  last  to  say  how  the 
miserable,  tired  out,  despised  existence  of  the 
Many 

"  seems  to  fall 

Toward  me — no  wreath,  only  a  lip's  unrest 
To  quiet,  surcharged  eyelids  to  be  pressed 
Dry  of  their  tears  upon  my  bosom.     Strange 
Such  sad  chance  should  produce  in   thee  such 

change, 
My  love  !  warped  souls  and  bodies  !  " 

Well  may  the  lover  of  "  warped  souls  and  bodies  " 
passionately  remind  us  of  the  need  of  a  Power 
above  us  and  beyond  us,  and  add,  with  profound 
significance  : 

4 'But  of  a  Power  its  representative 
Who,  being  for  authority  the  same, 
Communication  different,  should  claim 
A  course,  the  first  chose  and  this  last  revealed — 
This  Human  clear,  as  that  Divine  concealed — 
What  utter  need  !  " 

That  is  a  need  which  the  founders  of  the 
University  Settlements  did  not  fail  to  recognise — 
a  need  which  was  present  to  the  mind  of  him 
with  whose  memory  Toynbee  Hall  must  ever  be 
associated,  as  well  as  to  the  preacher  who  wrote 
concerning  the  Oxford  House  : — "  We  find  that 
a  lot  of  men  at  Oxford,  while  perfectly  recogni- 
sing the  preference  of  others  for  a  work  wholly 
cut  off  from  a  particular  religious  tie,  yet  for 

ii 


OF 

themselves  feel  that  the  secular  work  has  its  best 
background  in  a  *  foyer'  of  worship  and  prayer." 
There  are  some  who  seem  to  fear  that  these 
Settlements  are  not  secular  enough  for  their  pur- 
pose, as  though  the  ruling  out  of  the  world  into 
"  sacred  "  and  "  secular  "  were  not  of  itself  a  kind 
of  profanity. 

"  All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God," 

and,  if  to  clean  a  window  for  His  sake  be  often 
better  than  to  preach  a  sermon,  then  why  should 
there  be  these  futile  divisions  and  distinctions  ? 
To  assume  that  churches  and  parishes  are  all  very 
well  for  the  West,  but  that  agnosticism  is  the  only 
straight  road  to  the  hearts  of  costermongers,  and 
that  nothing  is  so  damning  to  work  in  the  East  as 
any  positive  belief — that  is  a  theory  which  shall 
not  here  be  admitted.  No,  if  the  Settlements  die, 
it  will  not  be  because  they  are  wrecked  on  religious 
controversies,  but  because  they  sink  for  want  of 
religious  faith. 

Well  might  Westcott  say  at  the  meeting  which 
united  Oxford  and  Cambridge  in  one  "  indissoluble 
bond,"  not  "  to  baffle  God  who  loves  the  world," 
but  to  try  at  least  to  put  themselves  at  His 
service : 

44 1  certainly  cannot  forget — how  can  I  forget  ? 
— that  the  central  fact  of  my  faith — of  our  faith 
— brings  before  us  with  a  power  that  nothing 
could  surpass,  the  supreme  truth  that  all  that  is 
noblest  in  life  is  common  to  men  as  men.  I 
cannot  forget  that  the  crowning  sign  of  the 
Christ  was  not  the  restoration  of  lost  powers,  was 

12 


not  even  the  temporal  conquest  of  death,  but  that 
a  gospel  is  preached  to  the  poor.  I  cannot  forget 
that  we  believe — and  profess  our  belief — in  one 
Church  in  which  all  diversities  of  class  and  en- 
dowment are  only  provisions  for  the  fulfilment 
of  diversities  of  office." 

The  work  of  the  Settlements  must,  it  is  true, 
often  include  drudgery,  friction,  weariness  ;  but 
how  true  it  is  that 

"  This  work  is  a  work  which  has  the  special 
qualities  of  mercy — it  is  twice  blessed, — and,  if 
the  blessing  prove  greater  on  one  side  than  on  the 
other,  it  will  be  on  the  side  of  those  that  go  there 
rather  than  on  the  side  of  those  to  whom  they 
go." 

This  paper  has  touched  on  Browning's  eloquent 
description  of  that  artistic  temperament,  allathirst 
for  beauty,  sensuous  and  spiritual,  with  which 
Sordello  was  gifted  for  blessing  or  for  cursing. 
Nowhere  perhaps  are  the  special  dangers  of  such 
a  nature— and  Browning  is  ever  emphasising 
their  perils — more  likely  to  be  fostered  than  in 
life  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  Which  of  us, 
feeling  in  ourselves  those  very  possibilities,  does 
not  shudder  in  reading  of  how,  in  this  world, 
Sordello  failed 

"  As  one  content  to  merely  be  supposed 
Singing  or  fighting  elsewhere,  while  he  dozed  "  ? 

If  there  be  any  who  realise  the  good  which  the 
University  Settlements  may  do  in  strengthening 
the  moral  fibre  and  spiritual  earnestness  of  the 

13 


OF 

workers,  but  doubt  on  the  other  hand  whether 
there  will  be  any  practical  result  in  the  neighbour- 
hood which  they  try  to  help,  there  are  two  facts 
of  which  they  may  be  reminded.  First,  let  them 
consider  that  the  whole  system  of  local  admini- 
stration in  England  is  based  on  the  tacit  assump- 
tion that  there  exists  everywhere  "  a  resident 
leisured  class  "  able  and  willing  to  do  the  work  of 
Vestries,  Poor  Law  Boards,  and  the  like ;  and 
then  reflect  that  in  the  East  of  London  such  a 
class  is  ruinously  absent. 

In  the  second  place,  let  them  remember  all  the 
harm  that  has  been  done  by  a  fussy  patronising 
benevolence  on  the  one  hand  and  a  cold  mechani- 
cal officialism  on  the  other;  and  ask  themselves 
whether  there  be  any  gift  more  certain  to  be 
fruitful  of  good  than  that  deep,  patient,  individual 
love  which  we  are  taught  to  pray  for  as  the  very 
bond  of  peace  and  of  all  perfectness,  the  love 
which  seeks  intimate  knowledge,  frequent  inter- 
course, individual  relationship.  Surely  the  in- 
ference is  not  far  to  seek.  The  residents  at  the 
Settlement  ought  to  supply  at  least  a  few  of  that 
class  of  much-needed  municipal  workers  who  in 
the  past  have  been  too  often  only  conspicuous  in 
the  East  End  by  their  absence.  They  ought  also, 
by  the  mere  fact  that  they  are  neighbours  in  a 
literal  sense,  and  have  a  right  to  share  in  the 
common  needs  and  sympathies  of  the  community, 
to  be  able  to  enter  into  relations  of  simple  friend- 
ship and  brotherhood  with  those  among  whom 
they  dwell.  What  is  sometimes  called  friendship 
is  often  as  great  a  sham  as  what  is  sometimes 

H 


SO^DSLLO  vfr  rne  e^sr 

called  brotherhood,  but  that  does  not  change  the 
fact  that  the  true  friendship  and  the  true  brother- 
hood are  divine  boons.  Never  are  they  more 
divine  than  when  they  overleap  class  distinctions, 
forget  traditional  prejudices,  ignore  sectarian 
divisions.  A  great  compeer  of  Browning's  has 
given  us  a  very  lovely  and  perfect  lyric,  in  which 
the  two  voices  sing  of  the  love  of  lovers  that  it  is 

"  Love  that  can  shape  or  can  shatter  a  life  till  the 

life  shall  have  fled  ? 

Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love  that  can  lift  up 
a  life  from  the  dead." 

And  may  it  not  be  said  of  all  unselfish  passion, 
above  all  of  that  enthusiasm  of  humanity  which 
is  neither  more  nor  less  than  divinely  inspired 
love,  that  it  may  be  vital  enough  to  kindle  into  a 
more  vivid  and  beautiful  existence  even  the  dull 
unbeautiful  deadness  of  East  London  ? 

"  Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love  that  can  lift  up 
a  life  from  the  dead." 

In  an  article  in  Time,  in  which  Canon  Barnett 
gave  a  clear  and  detailed  account  of  the  plan  and 
aim  of  "A  University  Settlement/'  he  reminds  us 
that 

"Vain  will  it  be  to  get  good  houses,  clean 
streets,  and  universal  comfort,  if  at  the  same  time 
men  do  not  find  delight  in  service.  It  would  be 
safe  indeed  to  go  a  step  further,  and  add,  vain  is 
the  gospel  which  makes  a  man  anxious  to  save  his 
own  soul,  if  at  the  same  time  he  is  not  made  more 
anxious  to  give  his  soul  to  save  his  friends." 

15 


OF 

Surely  that  is  a  truth  not  very  unlike  the  truth 
expressed  in  that  quotation  from  "  Sordello  "  with 
which  this  paper  opened. 

Canon  Barnett  rightly  tells  us  that — "  Happily 
there  is  no  need  to  rouse  public  feeling  as  to  the 
way  in  which  the  poor — that  is,  the  majority  of 
Englishmen — live.  Unnoticed  influences  have 
brooded  like  spirits  over  the  chaos  of  politics  and 
trade,  and  directed  the  thought  of  men  to  one 
end." 

How  many  thousands  of  men  and  women  in 
England  have  been  stirred  at  the  eleventh  hour  to 
a  really  energetic  resolve  that  Lazarus  shall  no 
longer  lie  untended  at  the  gate  !  The  filth  and 
squalor  of  our  large  towns  have  not,  alas,  come 
suddenly  and  recently  into  existence.  How  is  it 
that,  only  suddenly  and  recently,  the  question  has 
become  a  burning  question,  and  at  last,  thus  late 
in  the  day,  there  seems  likely  to  be  some  little 
outcome  of  good  work  ? 

Why  is  it  ?  It  is  because  at  last  faith's  furnace 
has  waxed  hot  enough  to  melt  even  callous  and 
stupid  hearts  to  shame.  Not  Browning  only,  but 
scores  of  inspired  workers,  known  and  unknown, 
have  been  ready  to  immolate  their  very  souls  and 
bodies  in  this  furnace  rather  than  fall  down  and 
worship  the  eyeless  golden  image  of  the  dwellers- 
at-ease,  and  at  last,  after  long  waiting,  there  has 
been  a  vision  of  God. 


16 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS,  R.A. 

UNMOVED  by  changing  forms  of  many  a  creed, 
He  served  the  Altar  with  a  toil  divine, 
Filled  Christ's  own  chalice  with  the  sacred  wine 
And  broke  the  bread  for  sacramental  need, 
Stooped  low  the  sad  and  hungry  souls  to  feed 
Who  make  their  life  the  dungeon  where  they 

pine, 
Through  their  dim  grating  called  the  stars  to 

shine, 

And  wrought  for  Him  who  is  the  Light  indeed. 
Now,  past  deep  waters  that  he  crossed  dry-shod, 
Beyond  Philistia,  quit  of  Amalek, 

In  joy  of  artistry  and  honour  increast, 
He  does  the  bidding  of  the  beautiful  God— 

An  acolyte  of  the  Eternal  Priest, 
After  the  order  of  Melchizedek. 


FEBRUARY  FAIR-MAIDS 

THEY  are  here,  the  February  Fair-Maids,  and  we 
think  of  the  great  poet,  not  dead,  but  ever  speak- 
ing to  our  hearts,  who  enshrined  for  us  in  words  of 
welcome  the  quaint  country  name  of  these  "  first- 
lings,"doubtless  the  name  they  bore  in  that  Lincoln- 
shire village  of  his  boyhood  where  "  the  little  glen 
in  the  neighbourhood  called  by  the  old  monkish 
name  of  Holywell "  he  remembered  "  white  with 
snowdrops  in  their  season  " — that  village  of  which 
he  wrote  in  sweet  Miltonian  cadences  in  his  "  Ode 
to  Memory  "  : 

<c  Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  grey  hill- 
side, 

The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four, 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves  .  .   . 
O  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  live-long  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 
Upon  the  ridged  wolds." 

There  is  something  in  the  cool  tranquility  of 
the  pastoral  and  sylvan  picture,  the  woods,  the 
running  water,  the  "  wattled  folds,"  that  seems  a 
fit  setting  for  the  glen  of  snowdrops,  those  white 
"  fair  maids "  of  February,  snooded  with  that 
delicate  and  vital  green  which  makes  them  the 
18 


very   promise  and  type  of  stainless   purity  and 
eternal  spring. 

But,  after  all,  their  loveliness  appeals  to  us  with 
a  more  moving  charm,  perhaps,  as  they  come  forth 
in  their  dazzling  hopefulness  from  the  sooty 
mould  of  old  flower-pots  on  London  window- 
sills,  "  innocent  whitenesses  "  (to  steal  and  reverse 
Charles  Lamb's  pretty  name  for  the  little  chimney- 
sweeps) as  yet  unspotted  by  the  bleak  and  wintry 
world.  Before  our  London  almond  tree,  our  wild 
"flow'r  o'  the  peach,"  puts  forth  the  delicate 
rose-flush  of  heaven  in  stony  corners  of  our  sordid 
streets,  before  the  chestnut  buds  begin  to  glisten, 
or  the  birds  to  make  their  sweet  springtide 
"jargoning  "in  grimy  London  gardens  and  in 
smutty  London  squares,  the  snowdrops  lift  their 
heads  in  graceful  hardihood,  as  unsullied  as  Pom- 
pilia,  as  unconscious  as  Pippa. 

Is  it  an  accident  that  our  English  country-folk 
have  rechristened  so  many  of  our  white  flowers 
with  such  especial  felicity  ?  The  pheasant-eyed 
narcissus  is  the  Sweet  Nancy,  the  white  flower  of 
the  Italian  painters  is  the  Mary  Lily,  the  snowdrop 
is  the  Fair  Maid  of  February.  But,  after  all,  for 
the  last  of  these  three,  the  name  by  which  it  is  most 
widely  known  is  the  loveliest  and  most  appropriate. 
White  as  the  driven  snow  it  is,  hung  upon  its 
smooth  stem,  tipped  with  the  heavenward-point- 
ing spear,  as  if  it  had  indeed  dropped  there,  with 
the  inimitable  poise  of  clinging  rain  or  pendent 
dew,  instead  of  having  in  truth  arisen,  after  the 
divinely  human  fashion,  through  slow  processes 
of  struggling  development,  extracting  beauty  from 

'9 


OF 

ugliness,  and   purity  from  "a  handful    of  poor 
earth." 

This  brief  paper  was  suggested  by  the  haunting 
music  of  that  one  line  in  Tennyson's  unrhymed 
poem  to  a  snowdrop  from  which  its  title  is  taken  ; 
but  it  is  in  his  far  more  perfect  lyric  of  "  Early 
Spring,"  a  lyric  which  must  surely  last  as  long  as 
the  English  language  lasts,  that  the  snowdrop  and 
the  crocus  speak  to  us  most : 

66  O  Heart,  look  down  and  up 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 
Like  snowdrops  pure." 

It  is  in  a  lyric  even  briefer,  and  for  once  as 
simple  and  as  musical,  that  Browning  has  be- 
queathed to  us  a  line  about  our  February 
flower : 

"  For  each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black, 

Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavour, — 
Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  for  ever ! — 

"Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger  ; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 
Or  so  very  little  longer !  " 

That  is  simple  enough  for  a  dullard,  and  it 
breathes  the  magic  which  cannot  be  defined  ;  in 
a  word,  it  is  poetry. 

But  loveliest  magic  of  all,  passing  even  this  of 
language,  is  in  the  snowdrop  itself,  in  silent  and 

20 


natural  ways,  transmuting  the  black  earth  of 
London  into  a  flower  fit  for  the  angels,  and  yet 
more  fit  for  men  and  women  : 

Like  to  life's  poetry  that  comes  not  by 
A  poet's  dreams,  but  blossoms  in  the  dust 
Of  lowly  deeds  and  patient-handed  toil. 


21 


PHILOSOPHY,  POETRY,  AND  THE 
LABOUR  PARTY 

"IN  reply  to  the  just  and  urgent  claims  of  the 
workmen  suddenly  deprived  of  their  means  of 
livelihood,  and  unable  in  a  day  to  find  another," 
cried  Auguste  Comte — I  quote  from  M.  Levy 
Bruhl's  summary — "  our  economists  can  only  re- 
peat with  merciless  pedantry  their  barren  aphorism 
about  absolute  industrial  liberty.  To  all  com- 
plaints they  dare  to  answer  that  it  is  a  question 
of  time !  And  this  to  men  who  require  food 
to-day !  " 

But  Comte  was  not  of  those  who  content 
themselves  with  quack  remedies  or  cheap  social 
nostrums.  He  liked  to  say  "that  the  considera- 
tion of  duty  is  bound  up  with  the  spirit  of  the 
whole."  .  .  .  "Every  one,"  he  taught,  "has 
duties,  and  towards  all.  No  one  has  any  right 
properly  so  called.  ...  In  us  the  intellect  is  only 
a  means.  Love  is  the  principle,  action  is  the  end." 

This  is  calming  and  bracing  doctrine,  after 
utterances  of  a  blatantly  selfish  kind,  published 
under  the  heading  of  "The  Liberals  and  the 
Labour  Men,"  glorifying  self-interest  as  the 
pivot  of  human  life. 

Who  can  doubt  that  Comte  is  right  and  that 
Love,  not  the  lower  motive  just  named,  is  at 
the  heart  of  all  true  communal  progress  and 
evolution  ? 

It  is    the   hidden   spring  of   that    self-control 

22 


TOSTRT  <^NT>  THS  L^BOU     T<AR<TT 


which  a  well-known  poet  and  essayist  has  pro- 
claimed as  the  most  valuable  of  all  habits,  and 
goes  even  deeper  than  the  desired  intercourse 
between  labour  and  academic  knowledge  so  con- 
vincingly advocated  by  Canon  Barnett. 

Like  all  vital  and  noble  forces,  Love,  as  the 
principle  of  action,  needs  and  demands  the 
widest  and  deepest  knowledge  attainable  within 
the  boundaries  of  Love's  own  limiting  obligations. 
Shelley,  whose  sympathy  with  labour  was  pas- 
sionate, wrote  : 

"The  wise  want  love,  and  those  who  love  want 

wisdom  : 

And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill  — 
Many  are  strong  and  rich  and  would  be  just, 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt  ;  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

But  Shelley's  Demogorgon,  in  a  vision  that 
passes  beyond  the  horizon  of  our  mortal  day  and 
yet  includes  it,  sees  that 

"  Love  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dread  endurance,  from  the  slippery  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony,  springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 
Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 
Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's 
strength." 

It  may  be  that  there  is  no  perfect  art,  even  of 

23 


OF 

living,  no  absolute  loveliness,  even  of  creation,  in 
which  there  is  not  a  fine  self-restraint. 

But  Labour,  the  mighty  Cyclops,  long  prisoned 
yet  ever  of  close  kinship  with  Olympus,  must 
needs  draw  strength  and  beauty  from  more 
elemental  sources  than  mere  social  conventions, 
or  traditional  orthodoxies  of  intellectual  scribes 
or  wrangling  pharisees. 

May  not  Labour  in  this  be  like  the  poet-girl 
who,  in  that  romance  of  social  reform  which 
Ruskin  is  said  to  have  honoured  as  the  greatest 
poem  of  the  nineteenth  century,  tells  us  that  she 

"...  had  relations  with  the  Unseen,  and  drew 
The  elemental  nutriment  and  heat 
From  nature,  as  earth  feels  the  sun  at  nights, 
Or  as  a  babe  sucks  surely  in  the  dark." 

I  have  had  the  high  honour  of  living  in  the 
closest  intercourse  with  labouring  people,  and  I 
know  that  their  lives,  which  in  pathos  are  ever  on 
the  edge  of  tragedy,  often  breathe  the  very  spirit 
of  the  deepest  poetry. 

The  burden  that  the  Cyclops  must  bear  in  city 
streets  and  slums,  where  the  very  soap  and  water 
have  to  be  paid  for,  indirectly  in  time  and 
strength  if  not  in  money,  is  a  load  that  only  the 
hardest  heart  can  realise  without  shame  and  grief, 
when  once  the  sense  of  corporate  responsibility 
and  practical  brotherhood  has  been  permanently 
awakened. 

But  even  there,  and  still  more  here,  in  the 
country,  where  some  measure  of  lovely  vision  and 
decent  living  are  within  reach  of  many  labouring 
24  . 


me 

homes,  there  is  a  pagan  joy  of  living,  a  fatalistic 
acceptance  of  the  inevitable  lot,  an  underlying 
faith,  not  in  churches  or  shibboleths,  but  in  all 
that  Dolly  Winthrop  trusted  to  as  "Them 
above" — a  heart  not  far  from  the  eternities,  and 
eyes  that  look  at  moments  towards  the  everlasting 
hills. 

Yet  I  cannot  deny  that  the  labourer  whom  I 
know  best — a  skilful  workman,  upright,  loyal, 
tender-hearted — is,  or  at  all  events  was,  when  he 
first  crossed  my  path,  deeply  seared  and  embittered 
by  our  unjust  and  unchristian  social  conditions, 
and  only  too  ready  to  respond  to  such  a  dastardly 
cry  as  that  here  reprinted  as  a  cruel  misrepresenta- 
tion of  the  intentions  of  the  Labour  Party — that 
Labour  Party  from  which  we  look  for  a  battle-cry 
ennobled  by  the  awful  sufferings  which  Labour  has 
endured. 

Here  is  the  terrible  line  which  made  me  suffer 
shame  for  the  mighty  Cyclops  whom  I  love  and 
reverence,  and  on  whose  weary  shoulders  rest  the 
very  foundations  of  society  : 

"  Self-interest  is  the  strongest  motive  in  human 
nature.  Look  after  your  own  interests.  Stand  by 
your  own  class.'' 

To  write  that  upon  the  Labour  programme 
would  indeed  be  to  sink  to  the  level  of  degrading 
class  feeling  and  class  distinctions.  It  is  not  only 
unworthy  of  a  great  cause,  it  is  also  suicidal ;  for 
any  section  of  the  community  that  founds  conduct 
upon  the  selfish  pedantries  of  the  old,  already 


OF 

superseded,  political  economy  is  writing  upon 
itself  a  sentence  of  death. 

Besides  our  own  island  poets,  there  is  one  bard 
of  world-wide  fame  who  has  especially  avowed 
himself  the  poet  of  Democracy.  He,  Walt 
Whitman,  looks  not  to  self-interest,  but  to  love,  as 
the  moving  power  of  the  world,  and  sees  round 
every  human  heart  that  divine  halo,  though  our 
our  eyes  are  often  blind  to  it. 

When  he  bids  you, 

"  Whoever  you  are  !  claim  your  own  at  any 
hazard," 

he  speaks  not  of  the  poor  toys  of  the  moment, 
but  of  that  which  neither  time  nor  death  can 
wrest  from  you.  He  bids  you  be 

"  Master  or  Mistress  in  your  own  rights  over 
Nature,  elements,  pain,  passions,  dissolution." 

There  are  creeds  and  crowns  that  are  merely 
political,  of  which  he  would  say  with  Mr. 
Swinburne  through  the  lips  of  Hertha — 

"  A  creed  is  a  rod 

And  a  crown  is  of  night  ; 
But  this  thing  is  of  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 
To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit, 
And  live  out  thy  life  as  the  light." 

He  believes  with  Wordsworth  that  Life 

"  .  .   .  is  energy  of  love 
Divine  or  human,  exercised  in  strife, 
26 


me 

In  pain  or  tribulation  and  ordained, 
If  so  approved  and  sanctified,  to  pass 
Through  shades  of  silent  rest  to  endless  joy." 

Shelley  wrote  of  love : 
"  It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God." 

But  Browning  gives  to  the  same  thought  an 
expression  at  once  juster  and  more  daring  : 

"  For  the  loving  worm  within  its  clod 
Were  diviner  than  a  loveless  god 
Among  his  worlds,  I  will  dare  to  say." 

The  crawling  of  the  worm  is  not  for  man — 
least  of  all  for  "  Labour  men,"  dear  to  the  Eternal 
Craftsman  who  chose  the  shed  of  a  carpenter  as 
the  nursery  on  earth  of  Divine  Love. 

Shelley,  who  defied  the  horrible  travesties  of 
Christianity  too  often  current  under  its  name,  yet 
wrote  concerning  the  true  symbol  of  sacrificial 
love  that 

"  .  .  .  blazoned,  as  on  Heaven's  immortal 

noon, 
The  Cross  leads  generations  on/' 

And  M.  Levy  Bruhl  reminds  us  that  Comte 
towards  the  close  of  his  life  read  every  day  in 
that  little  book  of  "  The  Imitation  "  which  bears 
the  name  of  one  who  lived  a  hard  and  self- 
renouncing  life. 

They  have  both  moved  the  world  and  be- 
queathed, to  us  who  love  and  labour,  thoughts  to 
strengthen  that  invaluable  habit  of  self-control 
from  within,  whereby  labour  may  achieve  some  of 

27 


OF  7*3088 

the  mighty  victories  so  finely  suggested  by  Mr. 
Frederick  Rogers,  who  has  hope  that  "  the 
horrible  conditions  of  so  much  of  our  factory  life, 
the  tragedy  of  the  aged  in  industry,  the  long  hours 
of  labour  for  some,  and  the  difficulty  of  obtaining 
labour  for  others,"  may  at  last  be  immediately 
and  energetically  grappled  with. 

Year  by  year  the  great  army  of  Labour  must 
count  its  maimed  and  slain  upon  the  battlefield. 
It  is  on  their  behalf  that  the  mighty  host  has  now 
become  articulate.  It  is  a  great  moment.  May  we 
not  say  to  Labour,  as  Mr.  George  Meredith  said 
to  Age,  when  speaking  of  that  Nature  whereby, 
as  he  teaches,  "  the  gloomy  Wherefore  of  our 
battlefield"  is  solved  "  in  the  Spirit," 

"  But  hast  thou  in  thy  season  set  her  fires 
To  burn  from  Self  to  Spirit  through  the  lash, 
Honoured  the  sons  of  Earth  shall  hold  thee 

high: 

Yea,  to  spread  light  when  thy  proud  letter  I 
Drops  prone  and  void  as  any  thoughtless 
dash  "  ? 


28 


ELECTION  OF  THE  LONDON 
COUNTY  COUNCIL 

Now  let  your  great  traditions  guard  your  heart, 
Brave  city  of  Milton,  Shakespeare's  capital ! 
Where  good  and  evil  still  hold  carnival 

And  in  your  civic  contests  bear  a  part ! 

Let  proud  philosophy  and  love  and  art 
Call  forth  artillery  from  their  arsenal 
To  thunder  for  your  rights  municipal 

And  sweep  corruption  from  your  crowded  mart ! 

No  slave  of  party  ever  can  be  free ; 

Oh,  learn  of  charity  from  that  Saint  Paul 
To  whom  you  dedicate  your  central  dome, — 

A  citizen  of  no  mean  city,  he,— 

And  keep  your  altar-hearth  aglow  for  all 
To  make,  amid  your  many  mansions,  Home ! 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

A  PLEA  FOR  DIVERSITY  IN  UNITY 

WE  hear  much  on  all  hands  of  physical  deteriora- 
tion, and  whatever  may  be  the  precise  ultimatum 
on  this  matter,  it  is  at  all  events  certain  that  to 
multitudes  of  our  fellow-citizens  the  conditions  of 
a  sound  physical  life  and  a  home  fit  for  the  rearing 
of  children  seem  to  be  not  only  unattainable,  but 
almost  beyond  hope.  It  is  true  that  every  man 
must  first  bear  his  own  sufficient  load  of  individual 
responsibility,  in  the  effort  to  live  honestly  and 
nobly  in  this  world  of  harassing  conflict  and  sordid 
competition.  But  he  who  can  impotently  stand 
unhelpingand  unmoved,  while  the  souls  and  bodies 
of  his  own  people  and  kindred  go  down  under 
burdens  too  heavy  to  be  borne,  must  be  dead  to 
the  essential  verities  by  which  we  claim  to  be  a 
Christian  nation.  For  such  a  nation  takes  upon 
itself  the  name  of  a  Master  in  social  ethics  who 
taught  that,  although  the  suffering  inherent  in  the 
discipline  of  this  transient  outward  body  must  not 
even  weigh  in  the  scale  against  the  education  of 
an  eternal  and  beautiful  spirit,  yet  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  men  should  be  fair  and  healthy  as  the 
glorious  lilies  of  the  field  ;  taught  that  for  necessary 
food  and  clothing  it  is  not  His  will  that  they 
should  lack ; — taught  that  to  close  the  heart 
against  the  physical  needs  of  any  human  creature 
was  to  court  a  worse  fate  than  drowning  with  a 
millstone  round  the  neck  ;  and  left,  as  a  vital  part 

30 


<THe  SOUL  OF  THS 

of  His  tradition,  the  daily  consecration  of  the  body 
as  a  temple  of  His  own  transcendent  Presence. 

But  the  problem  of  physical  deterioration  must 
be  attacked  at  its  source  and  centre  as  well  as 
through  its  environment.  Our  whole  social 
structure  demands  gradual  rebuilding  after  a 
diviner  plan  until  there  be  given  to  every  man  the 
birthright  of  such  an  outward  lot  as  shall  leave 
the  life  of  the  soul  unshackled  and  unimpaired. 
Nevertheless  it  is  impossible  even  to  glance  at 
modern  therapeutics  without  perceiving  that  in 
all  national  uplifting  the  sou!  of  the  people  reacts 
upon  the  body,  and  the  highest  level  of  racial 
efficiency  will  never  be  attained  where  there  is 
spiritual  flaccidity  and  blindness  and  corruption. 

Without  ever  wholly  separating  the  two  con- 
siderations, or  regarding  the  claims  of  the  spirit 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  claims  of  the  body,  it  may 
be  permissible,  on  non-controversial  and  non-party 
lines,  to  touch  upon  one  cardinal  error  which  seems 
to  permeate  official  dissensions  in  the  so-called 
religious  life  of  our  unchristian  Christian  empire. 

I  am  a  woman.  I  believe  in  those  profound 
distinctions  of  sex  wherein  lies  much  of  what  is 
highest  and  most  godlike  in  the  nature  made  in 
the  image  of  the  Eternal. 

"  Everywhere 

I  see  in  the  world  the  intellect  of  man, 
That  sword,  the  energy,  his  subtle  spear, 
The  knowledge  which  defends  him  like  a  shield — 
Everywhere." 

But  when    Robert    Browning    thus    defined    the 


OF 

masculine  prerogative,  through  the  lips  of  the  old 
Pope  in  "The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  he  was  far 
indeed  from  denying  to  woman  that  share  in  the 
guidance  of  the  imperial  hearth  which  even  Ruskin 
claimed  for  her  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
warned  her  against  cheap  feminine  effrontery  in  the 
direction  of  theological  disputations.  There  is 
much  that  I  gladly  leave  to  the  masculine  sword 
and  spear  and  shield,  for  I  know  well  that 

"  The  woman's  cause  is  man's  :  they  rise  or  sink 
Together." 

But  I  cannot  forget  that  on  woman  rests  the 
crowning  responsibility  of  motherhood,  and  no 
true  woman,  whether  married  or  unmarried,  can 
wholly  ignore  the  needs  of  the  children  who 
surround  her,  even  though  those  children  may  not 
be  her  own.  Therefore  women  may  in  all  modesty 
and  charity  have  a  word  to  say,  on  behalf  of  the 
children  in  our  schools  and  churches,  on  whom  the 
offence  of  our  quarrelsome  literalism  reacts  with 
deadening  and  disastrous  result.  And,  since  women 
are  popularly  supposed  to  be  religious  reactionaries, 
it  is  perhaps  not  unfitting  that  the  many  English- 
women who  believe  that  the  Church  needs  reform- 
ing from  within  should,  by  finding  a  spokeswoman, 
however  unworthy,  utter  their  plea  for  a  sane  and 
progressive  religious  unity,  a  unity  strengthened 
and  deepened  by  the  catholic  diversity  which  it 
includes. 

It  must  be  clear  to  the  meanest  understanding 
that,  unless  the  entire  historic  ideal  of  the  Ecclesia 
be  a  stereotyped  and  depraved  futility,  the  eccle- 
32 


me  SOUL  OF  rne  TSOTLS 

siastical  cannot  be  wholly  separated  from  the 
theological  and  the  ethical. 

The  magnification  of  orthodoxy  by  subservient 
selfishness  and  narrow  bigotry  has  been  once  for 
all  branded  with  scorn  by  the  Master's  scathing 
denunciation  of  self-seeking  and  self-righteous 
dignitaries  as  vipers  and  hypocrites,  but  that  de- 
nunciation was  perfectly  consonant  with  his  choice 
of  an  honest  and  orthodox  bigot  for  that  sudden 
heart-stirring  illumination  which  made  of  a  man, 
proud  at  once  of  his  civic  liberties  and  his  eccle- 
siastical education,  the  most  catholic  and  humbly 
self-sacrificing  of  His  ambassadors. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  those  who  regard 
themselves  as  the  responsible  leaders  of  Christianity 
in  England  stand  just  now  in  a  crossway  pass  of 
extreme  peril  and  have  a  right  to  remind  their 
followers  everywhere  that  England  in  this  matter 
also  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty.  On  the 
one  hand  a  hard,  literal,  fossilised  interpretation 
of  the  creeds  daily  turns  away  thousands  from 
altars  to  which  "  the  feast's  own  Founder " 
would  welcome  every  earnest  heart.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  very  foundation  of  all  that  makes 
for  home  and  peace  and  brotherhood  in  our 
rotten  social  fabric  is  being  undermined  by  a  tide 
of  neo-paganism,  a  tide  which,  held  at  bay  for  a 
time  by  that  rock  whereon  the  ancient  Church 
was  built  as  the  citadel  of  mutual  reverence  and 
steadfast  covenant  in  man's  daily  intercourse  with 
his  fellows,  now  seeks  to  sweep  away  everything 
beneath  the  iridescent  foam  of  its  self-indulgent 
pseudo-philosophy,  except  the  shifting  sands  of 

c  33 


OF 

animalism,  emotionalism,  and  blatant  sentimental 
rhapsody. 

"The  laws  of  marriage,"  of  which  Tennyson 
long  since  wrote  that  they  were,  in  his  ideal  woman, 

"  charactered  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart/' 

are  openly  mocked  at,  or  treated  with  a  scarcely 
veiled  contempt ;  and  one  of  the  sincerest  and 
most  distinguished  of  our  sociological  writers  in 
the  present  day  has  indicated  with  sufficient  plain- 
ness in  his  recent  utterances  concerning  education 
that,  in  his  opinion,  stimulus  is  more  important 
than  discipline  or  so-called  "  morality,"  and  that 
the  teachers  of  our  boys  need  not  be  over-nice  or 
sternly  pure-hearted  if  only  they  will  call  forth 
in  every  possible  direction  the  dormant  energies 
of  slowly  awakening  manhood,  forgetting  that, 
while  apathy  is  indeed  the  most  hopeless  of 
deadly  sins,  yet  there  is,  as  in  the  vision  of 
Coleridge's  "Ancient  Mariner," a  ghastly  Life- 
in-Death  of  lurid  sensationalism  that  throws  the 
dice  against  Death-in-Life  with  a  perpetual  risk 
of  an  even  deeper  perdition. 

Between  these  two  extremes  of  ecclesiastical 
idolatry  and  hysterical  materialism,  regarding  as 
beyond  present  cavil  the  vast  multitude  of  the 
so-called  Free  Churches,  and  considering  only  the 
form  of  religion  hitherto  chosen  by  the  State  for 
self-expression,  since,  for  those  of  us  who  are 
Anglicans,  criticism  should  begin  at  home,  we 
have  the  three  labelled  companies  within  the  visible 
national  shrine,  too  often  more  desirous  of  keeping 
34 


THS  SOUL  OF  THS  TSOTLS 

their  own  phylacteries  intact  than  of  realising 
that  eternal  fraternity  in  the  universal  Father- 
hood, to  which  the  Founder  of  their  religion 
sought  to  redeem  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men. 

Everywhere,   both     within    and    without    the 
Church,  there  are  good  men  and  true    who  lay 
down  their  lives  daily  for  the  faith  that  rules  their 
conduct  through  the  Spirit  of  Truth.      But  not 
the    less    is    it  certain  that  the  tares  still  grow 
among  the  wheat,  sown  by  the  Power  that  walks 
in  darkness  and  delights  to  scatter  maleficent  seed 
wherever  there  are  divisions  and  wranglings  within 
the  sacred  precincts.     And  therefore  is  it  still  pain- 
fully evident  that  each  of  the  three  controversial 
groups  within  the  consecrated  edifice  seeks  eagerly 
to  legalise  its  own  exclusive  interpretation  of  the 
great  charter,  and  is  too  much  occupied  in  pro- 
claiming that  it  is  not  as  other  men  to  have  time 
for  that  ever-present  kingdom  into  which  none 
may  enter  save  through  the   doorways   of  love. 
Ail  alike  are  guilty  of  the  same  primary  mistake, 
whether  it  be  those  of  us  who  demand  above  all 
else    the    externals    of  a    beautiful    and    ancient 
symbolism,  as  a  witness  to  that  divine  Self-sacrifice 
in  which   the   veriest   "Low  Churchman"  does, 
though  he  would  find  for  it  some  other  form  of 
expression,  in  his  heart  devoutly  believe ;  or  those 
who  ask  chiefly  for  legalised  freedom  and  a  faith 
that  lives  by  works ;  or  those  who,  in  their  eager- 
ness to  glorify  what  has  come  to  them  through 
the  crude  formula  of  an  illiterate  age,  forget  how 
the  mystery  of  sacrificial  redemption  and  the  un- 
speakable humility  of  Love,  may  be  blasphemed 

35 


OF 

and  distorted  by  the  inadequacy  of  crude  language, 
or  by  the  squalid  forms  of  an  irreverent  familiarity. 
"High,"  and  "Broad"  and  "Low"  alike  lose 
sight  too  often  of  that  height  and  breadth  and 
depth  of  the  Divine    Love    to   which    all    alike 
should    witness,    and   through    whose   power   all 
social  and  religious  progress  must  ever  proceed. 
If  they  really  believed,  as  they  think  they  believe, 
that  the  Divine  Spirit  is  present  in  the  Church  to 
guide  into  all  Truth,  then  they  would  fear    no 
multiplicity  of  opinion,  no  variety  of  intellectual 
belief,  in  a  Church  that  would  be  unmistakable  in 
its  ethical  unity  and  would  find  ample  expression 
in  the  simple  yet  mystic  sacraments  of  the  Water 
and  Bread  and  Wine.     If,  cleaving  the  wood,  we 
find  the  Eternal  there,  and  partaking  of  the  broken 
loaf  we  find  Him  present  also  in  that  symbol  of 
our  fellowship  with  the  whole  family  in  heaven 
and  earth,  and,  bowing  our  heart  to   that  cup  of 
sorrow  which  is   the   privilege   of  our   common 
humanity,  we  share  in  His  sacred  chalice,  can  we 
not  forego  the  petty  and  vulgar  clamour  which 
seeks  to  prescribe  to  other  citizens  of  the  Holy 
City  the  precise  shape  of  their  vesture  or  the  suit- 
able ritual  for  their  communion  ? 

Can  we  not  trust  all  details  to  the  informing 
and  inspiring  Spirit  ?  Must  we  fetter  the  Body 
that  we  name  His  temple,  lest  superstition  should 
creep  in,  or  Truth  should  walk  waywardly,  or 
Love  should  fall  to  baseness  ? 

There  was  One,  the  son  of  a  Jewish  peasant 
maiden,  who,  when  He  was  asked  how  and  where 
men  should  worship,  discovered  to  His  questioners 

36 


me  SOUL  OF  rne 

His  true  Divinity  when  He  answered  :  "  God  is 
a  Spirit,  and  they  that  worship  Him  must  worship 
Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth." 

He  was  right  who  taught  that  men  will  receive  as 

much  of  the  Divine  Life  as  they  are  able  to  receive 

—neither  less  nor  more ;    and  what  is  true  of  the 

individual  soul  must  be  true  also  of  that  corporate 

fellowship  which  history  has  named  the  Ecclesia. 

But  that  will  best  be  attained  by  absolute  free- 
dom of  religious  teaching  in  accordance  with  the 
wish  of  each  child's  parents,  giving  to  each  religious 
or  "  secularist "  contingent  in  the  great  army  the 
choice  of  its  own  teachers,  the  control,  by  that 
section  of  the  people  and  for  that  section  of  the 
people,  of  its  own  religious  or  ethical  teaching, 
while  securing  under  the  popular  control  of  the 
whole  united  kingdom  the  intellectual  and  physical 
efficiency  of  each. 

The  highest  and  most  vital  unity,  both  in  the 
realm  of  what  we  call  "Nature  "and  in  the  world 
of  human  affairs,  is  correlative  with  expansion, 
development,  complexity.  Uniformity,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  always  deadening  and  retrograde  in 
its  influence.  In  national  education — in  imperial 
education — there  can  be  no  fundamental  and  pro- 
gressive unity  which  does  not  include  perfect  free- 
dom of  diversity  and  rest  upon  absolute  equality 
of  opportunity.  No  Education  Bill  and  no  new 
Rubric  can  be  of  enduring  value  unless  this  double 
condition  be  fulfilled. 

Of  this  at  least  we  may  be  certain,  that  if  a  day 
ever  come  in  which  Christianity  in  Church  and 
State  shall  have  ceased  all  useless  wrangling  and 

37 


s  OF 

morbid  self-analysis,  and,  like  her  Master,  shall 
have  given  herself  up  entirely  to  feeding  and 
healing,  educating  and  redeeming,  the  bodies  and 
the  souls  of  men,  in  that  day  degeneration  and 
deterioration  will  be  stayed  at  their  source  and  we 
shall  see  new  heavens  and  a  new  earth. 


LOAVES 

TO  THE  LOAF-MAKER 

BY  A  SONG-MAKER 

[The  Archbishop  [of  York]  .  .  .  mentioned  that  he  was 
very  much  touched  the  other  day  by  receiving  from  a 
journeyman  baker  towards  the  building  of  a  church  in  his 
parish  the  sum  of  £$oo,  the  savings  of  a  lifetime,  along 
with  a  letter  in  which  he  said  he  gave  the  amount  as  a 
small  thank-offering  for  the  benefits  God  had  given  him  ever 
since  his  baptism* — YORKSHIRE  POST,  April  21,  1910.] 

OH,  my  brother,  my  brother,  I  would  I  could  do 

as  much  ! 

Every  day  thro*  the  heat  and  stress 
You  made  your  loaves  for  the  Lord  to  bless— 

Loaves  you  could  see  and  touch — 
To  feed  the  hungry  or  help  the  faint, 
Bring  needed  life  to  sinner  and  saint, 
Like  the  sun,  who  thro'  all  the  journey's 

length 
To  the  just  and  the  unjust  giveth  strength  ! 

Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother,  I  would  I  had  always 

made 

At  daily  cost  of  the  oven's  heat 
Such  holy  loaves  for  the  folk  to  eat — 

Served  as  the  Master  bade — 
Still  counting  even  the  counter-pelf 
A  trust  from  the  Lord  of  Life  Himself, 
And  feeding  the  folk  with  the  best  of  good 
Made  quick  in  the  fires  of  brotherhood  ! 

39 


OF 

Oh,  I  have  striven,  have  striven,  to  earn  my  right 

to  my  bread, 

Were  it  only  to  lift  with  joyful  song 
The  bitter  days  that  should  make  men  strong, 

Or  give,  in  love's  own  stead, 
A  call  to  battle,  a  passing  breath 
Of  courage  and  hope  in  face  of  death  ! 
I  made  the  loaves,  but  the  loaves  were  few, 
And  I  often  failed,  as  the  Master  knew. 

You,  my  brother,  my  brother,  were  crowned  with 

a  ceaseless  toil, 

Till  out  of  your  faithful,  labouring  life — 
The  furnace  flush  of  your  oven-strife— 

You  won  a  thrifty  spoil, 
You,  who  have  laid  on  the  altar-stone 
A  double  gift  for  the  Lord  to  own — 
The  daily  bread  that  is  life-bread  good, 
And  the  Bread  of  the  Spirit's  Brotherhood  ! 

You  who  have  fed  men's  bodies  to  work  the  will 

of  the  soul — 

Faithfully  serving,  won  in  the  end 
To  helping  the  soul  itself,  my  friend, 

The  body's  life  to  control, 
Soul-hunger's  agony  to  redress, 
And  man  with  the  Bread  of  Life  to  bless, 
So  heartening  singers,  who  with  bent  head, 
Have  wrought,  in  the    mills    of   God,  man's 
bread. 


40 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  STATE* 

THE  wise  care  of  the  children  of  the  State  is  a  duty 
beyond  all  party  question,  and  the  conciliatory, 
statesmanlike  energy  of  the  State  Children's  Aid 
Association  will  do  much  to  strengthen  the  hands 
of  men  on  both  sides  of  the  House  in  any  measures 
of  reform  which  come  before  Parliament  touching 
this  great  and  perplexing  responsibility.  Among 
our  Poor  Law  Guardians  are  men  and  women 
whose  self-denial  and  devotion  put  to  shame  many 
of  their  critics  ;  but  Guardians  cannot  move  in 
advance  of  the  national  verdict,  and  it  is  a  part 
of  the  work  of  this  society  to  enlighten  unofficial 
opinion. 

If  we  understand  the  Association  aright,  more 
individual  care  for  the  children  of  the  State  is 
the  very  heart  of  its  contention — more  home-life, 
with  all  its  variety  of  give  and  take  and  rough  and 
smooth;  less  of  that  safe,  machine-like,  inflexible 
institution-routine,  which,  from  its  very  per- 
fection and  inevitableness,  deadens  character, 
crushes  spontaneity,  and  injures  health.  Courage, 
resource,  originality — what  chance  is  there  of 
these  where  childhood  is  governed  in  the  aggre- 
gate and  humanity  is  adjusted  to  the  average  ? 
What  though  the  great  and  tender  humourist 
who  wrote  "  Oliver  Twist "  has  taught  this  over 
and  over  again  with  tragic  and  reiterated  emphasis  ? 

*  A  portion  of  an  article  which  appeared  in  the  Guardian 
in  April  1898. 

41 


OF 

Unhappily  it  needs  to  be  hammered  at  still,  in- 
cluding as  it  does  the  other  terrible  truism  that 
in  such  a  uniformity  of  process  it  is  usually  the 
finest  nature  that  suffers  most.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  ordinary  children  need  constant  and  dis- 
cerning care,  how  much  more  the  children  who 
are  born  into  the  world  with  a  physique  weakened 
by  parental  poverty  or  vice,  even  when  the  character 
bears  no  hereditary  taint  of  parental  feebleness 
or  despair. 

Education,  while  reckoning  with  heredity,  may 
often  take  courage  from  the  possibility  of  a  healthy 
atavism,  and  seek  to  evoke  the  moral  beauty  of 
some  forgotten  ancestor,  if  the  nearer  forebears 
have  been  less  promising.  Nor  dare  we  forget 
that  in  the  most  unattractive  child  there  is  ever 
latent  the  divine  ideal  of  the  unseen  angel.  And 
yet  once  more,  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated, 
in  regard  to  much  that  is  most  tender  and  lovely 
in  the  earliest  unfolding  of  human  identity,  that 
the  more  delicate  and  sensitive  it  is,  the  more 
easily  may  it  be  smitten  and  warped ;  so  that  it  is 
likely  to  be  precisely  those  children  whose  future 
citizenship  might  have  most  enriched  the  State 
with  noble  refinement  and  subtle  wisdom  who,  if 
bred  up  in  huge  institutions,  will,  for  the  term  of 
their  mortal  life,  be  stunted  and  debased  by  the 
necessarily  unvarying  commonplaces  formalised 
to  meet  the  requirements  not  of  the  particular 
child,  but  of  a  whole  herd  of  children.  If  any 
objector  reply  that  nothing  is  so  healthy  as  the 
normal  and  the  commonplace,  that  is  but  an 
evasion  after  all.  It  might  indeed  have  force  if 
42 


rns  CHii/De$  OF  me 


originality  were,  as  in  the  gospel  of  the  Decadent, 
merely  synonymous  with  unreality  and  morbidity  ; 
but  no  one  who  cares  for  children  with  a  love 
which  gives  insight  can  escape  the  feeling  that 
childhood,  even  when  it  is  most  normal  and 
vigorous,  is,  in  its  very  buoyancy  and  simplicity, 
full  of  ever  new  surprises  of  individual  charm. 
Alas  !  charm  is  not  the  word  associated  in  any 
memory  with  that  name,  in  itself  a  brand,  which 
is  happily  being  banished  from  the  tongue  of 
decency,  now  that  the  undeserved  and  unasked 
burden  of  dependent  poverty  no  longer  labels  as 
a  "  pauper  "  that  "  child  of  the  State  "  who,  like 
every  other  child  ever  born  into  this  wicked  world, 
is  also  a  "child  of  God."  Instead  of  the  old 
"  pauper  spirit,"  which  was  only  another  word  for 
apathy,  we  want,  by  means  of  home  life,  to  develop 
in  every  child  more  of  that  vigour  and  strenuous 
personality  of  which.  Chapman  wrote  so  bravely  : 

"  A  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  fill'd  with  a  lusty  wind, 
Even  till  his  sail-yards  tremble,  his  masts  crack, 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  side  so  low 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air. 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is." 


43 


SNOWDROP-TIME 

The  author  wishes  to  acknowledge  her  debt,  since  she  wrote 
these  lines  when  haunted  by  "E.  Nisbcfs  "  beautiful  poem 
"  Little  Brown  Brother" 

66  IT'S  rather  dark  in  the  earth  to-day," 

Said  one  little  bulb  to  his  brother ; 

"  But  I  thought  that  I  felt  a  sunbeam  ray — 

We  must  strive  and  grow  till  we  find  the  way  !  " 

And  they  nestled  close  to  each  other. 

Then  they  struggled   and  toiled  by  day  and  by 

night, 

Till  two  little  snowdrops,  in  green  and  white, 
Rose  out  of  the  darkness  and  into  the  light, 
And  softly  kissed  one  another. 


44 


DAFFODILS 

IT  is  a  late  spring,  but  one  flower  has  sprung  up 
and  blossomed  with  fairy-like  rapidity — first  the 
blade,  then  the  bud,  after  that  the  full  flower  in 
the  sun.  It  is  here,  not  singly,  but  in  troops  and 
companies.  In  the  avenue  to  the  great  beautiful 
house  hard  by,  it  stars  the  turf  on  either  hand  in 
wild, unstudied  profusion,  though  more  resplendent 
on  that  side  of  it  which  is  sheltered  from  the  east 
wind  than  on  those  other  levels  where  the  cutting 
north-easter  blows.  In  our  own  cottage  gardens 
the  bright  yellow  blossoms  are  already  gay.  They 
seem  to  bring  incarnate  sunshine  into  the  wintry 
borders — the  one  bit  of  colour  that  can  rival  in 
its  brilliance  the  glorious  red  and  pink  of  japonica 
and  ribes,  starring  with  gold  the  dull  garden- 
beds,  under  the  windows  and 

"  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze." 

They  laugh  for  joy,  and  justify  Wordsworth's 
epithet  of  "  jocund  "  as  their  inevitable  right  and 
title.  They  were  barely  in  time  this  year  to 

"  take  the  winds  of  March  with  beauty 
Before  the  swallow  dares," 

but  the  April  showers  are  much  to  their  liking, 
and  indeed  it  is  in  the  "  Shepheard's  Calendar  "  for 
April  that  Spenser  bids  us 

45 


OF 

"  Strowe  the  ground  with  daffadowndillies, 
And  cowslips,  and  kingcups,  and  loued  lillies." 

Did  not  Broome  write  long  ago : 

"  The  joyous    spring    draws    nigh !      Ambrosial 

showers 

Unbind  the  earth,  the  earth  unbinds  the  flowers, 
The  flowers  blow  sweet,  the  daffodils  unfold 
The  spreading  glories  of  their  blooming  gold  ''  ? 

That  they  have  always  made  merry  "  beside  the 
margin  of  a  lake/'  Spenser  had  noted  long  before 
the  days  of  Wordsworth,  for  he  tells  us  that  when 
news  was  brought  to  the  mother  of  Marianell  that 
Britomart  had  killed  him,  the  messenger  found  her 

"  Among  her  watry  sisters  by  a  pond, 
Gathering  sweete  daffadillyes,  to  have  made 
Gay  girlonds  from  the  Sun  their  forheads  fayr 
to  shade." 

Old  Richardson  gives  many  spellings  of  this 
flower's  name — a  name  which  seems  at  first  to 
have  been  daffadils  :  through  the  French  Aspodille 
and  the  Italian  Asphodelo  he  traces  back  to  the 
Greek  Ao-^o&Ao?. 

The  old  daffadil  spelling  recalls  at  once 
Constable's  charming  song,  of  which  the  first  two 
verses  run  : 

"  Diaphenia,  like  the  daffa-down-dilly, 
White  as  the  sunne,  faire  as  the  lilly, 

Heigh  ho,  how  I  doe  love  thee  ! 
I  doe  love  thee  as  my  lambs 
Are  beloved  of  their  dams, 

How  blest  were  I  if  thou  would'st  prove  me  ! 
46 


"  Diaphenia,  like  the  spreading  roses, 
That  in  thy  sweetes  all  sweetes  encloses, 

Faire  sweet  how  I  doe  love  thee ! 
I  doe  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sunne's  life-giving  power. 

For  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me." 

Was  it  that  white  and  gold  are  the  Easter 
colours  and  splendour  was  a  part  of  the  transient 
pomp  of  Death,  the  divine  messenger,  or  was  it 
a  healthy  delight  in  its  very  mirthfulness — a  sense 
of  tragic  contrast,  mingling  with  the  glowing  joy 
of  hope,  that  made  the  older  poets  not  infrequently 
strew  this  flower  of  sunshine  above  the  beloved 
dust  of  their  dead  ?  In  a  pastoral  masque  by 
Hughes  we  find  the  lines : 

"  On  his  lovely  body  shower 

Leaves  of  roses,  virgin  lilies, 
Cowslips,  violets,  daffodillies, 
And  with  garlands  dress  the  bower." 

And  does  not  Milton 

"  Bid  amarantus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strow  the  laureat  herse  where  Lycid  lies  "  ? 

Our  later  poet  T.  E.  Brown,  in  writing  of  the 
death  of  a  child,  touches  a  simpler  and  perhaps 
more  modern  note: 

"  O  God,  to  Thee  I  yield 

The  gift  Thou  givest  most  precious,  most  divine  ! 
Yet  to  what  field 
I  must  resign 

47 


His  little  feet 

That  wont  to  be  so  fleet, 

I  muse.     O,  joy  to  think 

On  what  soft  brink 

Of  flood  he  plucks  the  daffodils, 

On  what  empurpled  hills 

He  stands,  Thy  kiss  all  fresh  upon  his  brow, 

And  wonders,  if  his  father  sees  him  now  !  " 

But  indeed  every  spring  garland  intertwines 
the  flower  of  love  with  the  secret  promise  of  some 
far-off  goal. 

"The  dusky  strand  of  death  enwoven  here 
With  true  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more 
dear  " ; 

and  if  even  the  pagan  Eros  seemed,  though  but 

"  a  trifler  gay, 

The  prodigal  of  an  immortal  day 
For  ever  spending,  and  yet  never  spent,'' 

the  great  living  poet  who  wrote  that  fine  descrip- 
tion of  him  wrote  also : 

"  For  what  is  Beauty,  if  it  doth  not  fire 
The  loving  answer  of  an  eager  soul  ? 
Since  'tis  the  native  food  of  man's  desire, 
And  doth  to  good  our  varying  world  control ; 
Which,  when  it  was  not,  was  for  Beauty's  sake 
Desired  and  made  by  Love,  who  still  doth  make 
A  beauteous  path  thereon  to  Beauty's  goal." 


THE  FEEDING  OF  NECESSITOUS 
SCHOOL-CHILDREN 

[  Lunacy  is  rapidly  increasing  ;  poverty  does  not  lessen  ;  while 
degeneracy  and  crime  have  got  entirely  beyond  control. 
We  are  very  near  a  precipice^  requiring  only  a  "  heave- 
over"  to  go  to  pieces. — ALBERT  WILSON,  M.D.,  "  Edu- 
cation, Personality,  and  Crime."] 

THE  virtuous  person  who  refuses  to  undermine 
parental  responsibility  by  feeding  necessitous 
school-children  forgets  that  we  have  already  in- 
terfered with  parental  responsibility  by  compel- 
ling thousands  of  fathers  and  mothers  to  send 
their  children  to  school,  whether  they  wish  it  or 
not,  and  that  having  done  this  it  is  at  least  our 
clear  duty  to  take  care  that  no  slow  murder  or 
mutilation  result.  There  is  an  overwhelming 
mass  of  evidence  to  prove  that  these  terrible  con- 
sequences have  not  infrequently  ensued  where 
undeveloped  brain-machinery  has  been  at  the 
same  time  whipped  up  and  starved.  The  dis- 
tinguished author  of  "  Education,  Personality,  and 
Crime,"  himself  a  physician  who  has  had  twenty- 
five  years  of  wide  experience,  writes  that  a  we 
are  killing  mentally  and  physically  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  [these]  our  best  national  assets.  .  .  . 
The  compulsion  to  attend  school  tells  very  heavily 
on  the  starving  poor,  and  the  injury  to  the  badly 
nourished  and  defective  children  spells  ruin  for 
their  future  careers.  .  .  .  Thousands  of  children 
are  growing  up  with  slightly  damaged  brains,  who 
attract  no  special  notice  from  the  casual  observer. 
It  is,  however,  just  the  little  damage,  sometimes 

D  49 


OF 

curable,  which  turns  the  scale  against  an  indi- 
vidual in  the  struggle  for  existence.  ...  If  the 
child  be  starved,  delicate,  or  neurotic,  the  State 
inflicts  untold  mental  suffering  and  injury,  which 
may  wreck  the  future  career,  and  even  thereby 
make  criminals.  ...  It  is  as  hopeless  to  expect 
mentation  and  brain  development  from  a  starving 
child  as  to  move  the  Cornish  express  if  there  is 
no  fuel  underneath  the  engine  boiler." 

The  writer  of  this  grave  indictment  is  not  a 
sentimentalist.  He  boldly  advocates  eugenic  re- 
form of  a  very  stringent  character,  and  cuts  clean 
through  a  great  many  fanciful  cobwebs.  Nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  does  he  share  the  dogmatism  of  a 
crude  agnostic  denial ;  for  he  remarks  that  "  to 
deny  the  influence  of  the  Spirit  on  mind  and 
character  is  to  limit  science." 

But  he  does  not  disguise  the  fact  that  our 
present  manufacture  of  criminals  and  lunatics  is  a 
wasteful  folly,  in  which  the  overpressure  of  ill- 
nourished  bodies  plays  a  part  so  disastrous  as  to 
need  quite  as  much  attention  as  ethical  neglect  or 
the  multiplication  of  the  feeble-minded  and  the 
unfit  by  means  of  ill-advised  marriages.  Nay,  he 
even  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  "it  seems  as  if 
environment  were  more  important  than  heredity 
in  the  life  of  the  individual."  He  tells  us  that, 
although  in  his  opinion  there  are  to  be  found 
among  the  poor  some  of  the  finest  potentialities 
of  the  race,  yet  among  the  boys  in  prison — many 
of  them  only  sixteen — "a  great  amount  of  de- 
terioration in  face  and  form  is  to  be  seen  .  .  . 
malnutrition  is  their  ruin'' 

5° 


rne  FSSVI^G  OF 

This  assertion  with  regard  to  malnutrition  he 
supports  with  striking  and  detailed  figures  in 
regard  to  the  under  weight  of  boys  in  reformatories, 
where  the  unsatisfactory  boys  were  progressively 
subnormal  in  weight  as  compared  with  the  "good" 
ones.  It  has  been  shown  by  careful  facts  and 
diagrams  in  the  book  already  quoted  that  the 
most  important  part  of  the  brain,  that  "  pyramidal 
layer  of  the  prefrontal,"  of  which  Shaw  Bolton 
has  spoken  as  "  the  last  to  develop "  and  "  the 
region  concerned  with  the  general  orderly  co- 
ordination of  psychic  processes,"  is  incomplete  at 
birth  and  may  be  only  gradually  built  up  when  the 
child  is  well  nourished  and  cared  for.  If  young 
children  are  so  ill-nourished  during  education  as 
to  leave  this  "  master  of  the  house  "  of  thought 
in  infantile  incapacity,  it  is  not  only  they  who  will 
suffer ;  the  agony  may  fall  upon  their  children's 
children  in  ever-increasing  ratio.  If  we  make  it 
illegal  for  the  poor  to  withdraw  exceptionally 
sensitive  and  fragile  children  from  public  edu- 
cation, it  is  no  mere  charity  to  lessen  the  risk 
by  insisting  on  proper  food,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
an  act  of  bare  justice.  For  let  it  always  be  re- 
membered that  instruction  is  but  a  small  part  of 
education — education  is  the  evoking  and  unfolding 
of  all  that  is  highest  and  best  in  the  whole  nature, 
body  and  soul,  as  well  as  mind,  and  is  not  the  out- 
come of  mental  processes  alone. 

Without  entering  on  controversial  ground 
regarding  the  Majority  and  Minority  Reports,  it 
may  be  worth  while  to  answer  one  statement,  in 
a  leaflet  now  lying  before  me,  which  urges  against 

5' 


OF 

the  present  methods  of  feeding  school-children  that 
an  increase  in  pauperisation  is  indicated  by  the 
greatly  increased  number  of  free  meals  during  the 
iforegoing  year — there  estimated  as  an  advance 
from  4,546,771  to  7.702,506. 

In  reply,  there  are  two  obvious  facts  which  may 
be  incisively  urged. 

In  the  first  place,  this  feeding  of  necessitous 
children,  where,  as  at  Bradford,  it  is  supported  out 
of  the  rates — working  out  at  \d.  in  the  pound — does 
but  fulfil  in  another  form  the  obligation  of  the 
Guardians  to  permit  no  starvation,  in  accordance 
with  a  statute  now  embodied  and  strengthened  in 
the  Children's  Act,  a  statute  to  which  attention 
was  drawn  by  the  late  Rev.  B.  Waugh,  who 
emphasised  its  bearing  on  prevailing  conditions  by 
a  gruesome  story  of  seven  children  at  Swindon 
who  were  dying  under  the  very  nose  of  the 
relieving  officer.  By  means  of  the  Children's 
Care  Committees,  which  include  much  voluntary 
help  of  an  expert  and  humane  order,  the  tendency 
of  public  meals  under  a  competent  Education 
Authority  is  to  bring  careless  parents  to  their 
duty  and  increase  their  sense  of  responsibility. 
At  Bradford,  for  instance,  in  the  year  ending 
March  31,  1909,  there  were  194  parents  paying 
full  cost,  besides  an  average  of  67  children  each 
day  purchasing  tickets  at  full  price ;  and  59 
parents  paying  part  of  the  cost,  the  total  number 
of  individual  children  coming  within  this  category 
throughout  the  year  being  610. 

The  statistics  there  show  that,  after  deducting 
rent,  the  income  per  head  of  the  5 182  persons,  in 
52 


rne  FSSVI^G  OF 

the  households  sending  children  to  the  free  meals, 
only  amounted  to  is.  ^\d.  (presumably  per  week), 
and  that  is  not  an  allowance  on  which  any  child  can 
be  properly  clothed  and  nourished,  at  a  time  when 
the  growing  brain  is  especially  in  need  of  sustenance. 
That  more  children  are  fed  means,  therefore,  that 
there  is  less  destructive  starvation,  less  public  and 
private  neglect,  more  compulsion  of  lazy  or  greedy 
parents  to  do  some  small  part  at  least  of  their  duty. 

Secondly,  even  more  stress  must  be  laid  upon 
the  fact  that  the  maintenance  and  restraint  of 
criminals  and  unemployables  is  a  more  expensive 
item  to  the  country  than  free  meals  in  our  midst. 
Estimating  our  criminal  population  on  Dr.  Albert 
Wilson's  figures  at  150,000  and  the  number  of 
lads  passing  yearly  through  our  prisons  at  16,000, 
it  only  remains  to  be  reiterated  that  in  the  opinion 
of  this  expert,  as  well  as  in  that  of  Dr.  Arkle, 
want  of  nutrition  while  at  school  is  one  chief  cause 
of  degeneracy  and  crime. 

With  regard  to  girls,  the  plea  is  even  more 
urgent,  for  they  are  in  a  special  sense  the  custodians 
of  the  future,  and  if  by  overpressure  and  under- 
feeding we  overstrain  or  atrophy  their  capacity 
for  what  Browning  finely  named  "the  Trust  of 
trusts,"  then  we  may  expect  physical  deterioration 
to  go  on  apace.  The  study  of  the  facts  recently 
tabulated  will  show  that  such  deterioration  is 
already  dangerously  rapid,  and  in  speaking  on 
this  subject  of  child-degeneration  it  has  been 
well  said  by  one  well-known  neurologist  that 
our  Empire  is  bleeding  to  death  at  its  heart. 
Religious  effort  does  somewhat  staunch  the  wound, 

53 


s  OF 

but  there  is  tragedy  in  the  position  of  many  a 
young  life,  thrown  upon  the  world  with  an  affec- 
tionate nature  and  right  aspirations,  yet  either  a 
"  born  tired,"  to  quote  one  doctor's  nomenclature, 
or  one  of  those  unfortunates  to  whom  apply  the 
same  doctor's  terrible  words  regarding  arrested 
brain  development  through  lack  of  nourishment, 
when  he  writes  that  "  the  will  is  to  them  as  a 
withered  plant  that  might  have  developed,  but 
has  died  of  starvation  soon  after  birth." 

Are  thousands  of  our  young  lives  to  find  this 
their  fate,  or  shall  we  realise  in  time  that,  if  the 
State  has  a  right  to  punish,  the  State  has  also  a  right 
to  protect,  and  to  use,  under  official  guidance  and 
organisation,  the  help  of  all  those  skilled.volunteers, 
women  as  well  as  men,  who  are  experts  in  education 
and  in  social  amelioration  and  have  escaped  the 
cramping  influence  of  lives  bound  up  in  red  tape  ? 

Shall  we  be  content  that  English  children,  and 
their  children  after  them,  shall  in  ever-increasing 
ratio  degenerate  and  decline,  or  shall  we  do  our 
best  that  they  may  become  what  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges  has  so  finely  imaged  for  us  in  his  poem 
entitled  "The  Fair  Brass7*: 

"  Heirs  of  our  antique  shrines, 
Sires  of  our  future  fame, 
Whose  starry  honour  shines 
In  many  a  noble  name 

"  Across  the  deathful  days, 
Link'd  in  the  brotherhood 
That  loves  our  country's  praise, 
And  lives  for  heavenly  good." 
54 


THYRSIS  IN  A  LONDON  SQUARE 

IT  is  that  "  sweet  season  "  beloved  of  Chaucer  and 
of  all  the  poets,  the  beginning  of  the  blossoming 
time  which  Matthew  Arnold  has  associated  for 
all  lovers  of  "  Thyrsis "  with  Oxford  and  with 
Clough. 

Browning's  lines  descriptive  of  the  cuckoo's 
music  have  become  classic,  but,  even  while  we 
quote  them,  to  some  of  us  the  thought  of  a  very 
different  poet  is  present,  one  less  robust,  less  opti- 
mistic, with  more  of  the  minor  third  in  his  voice, 
yet,  like  Browning,  a  lover  of  men,  one  who  faced 
all  doubts  with  guileless  sincerity,  and  drew  his 
daily  inspiration  of  help  and  comfort  for  the  human 
brotherhood  from  the  "  only  Source  of  all  our 
light  and  life."  Who  can  hear 

"  the  word 
In  a  minor  third 
There  is  none  but  the  cuckoo  knows," 

without  thinking  of  that  "  quick  despairer,"  of 
whom  the  cuckoo  was  to  Matthew  Arnold  the 
symbol,  who  vanished  too  soon  from  our  midst 
before  the  promise  of  the  golden  year  had  un- 
folded to  his  sight,  and  while  still  his  heart  was 
aching  at  the  thought  of  human  inequalities  ?— 

"  Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  fill'd  his 
head. 

55 


OF 

He  went;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground  ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead. 

"  So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden- 
trees, 
.Come  with  the  volleying    rain    and    tossing 

breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  gone  and  with  the  bloom  go  I ! 

"  Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  ?— 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps  come 

on, 
Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and 

swell, 

Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 
Sweet-William  with    his    homely    cottage- 
smell, 

And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 
And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 
And    groups    under    the    dreaming    garden- 
trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white,  evening  star." 

For  us  to-day  the  hedges  are  still  white,  and  new 
fronds  of  fern  are  still  uncrumpling 

"And  blue-bells  trembling  by  the  forest  ways." 

We  have  not  come  yet  to  the  "  scent  of  hay  new- 
mown,"  but  already  we  see  the  approach  of  that 

56 


"  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden-walks,  and  all  the  grassy  floor, 
With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May, 
And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn." 

The  chestnut-flowers  are  for  us  but  now  be- 

? inning  to  fade  and  the  may  to  fall.  London  in 
une  is  wont  to  gleam  with  a  strange  beauty. 
Full  at  all  times  of  a  deep  and  tragic  poetry,  for  a 
brief  space  she  puts  on  a  wreath  of  joyous  promise 
that  wafts  its  fragrance  hither  and  thither  into  her 
darkest  and  most  poverty-stricken  corners,  on  the 
wings  of  a  liberal,  wide-reaching  spring  breeze  that 
dips  into  parks  and  squares  for  the  healthy  sweet- 
ness that  it  carries  for  a  moment  into  squalid 
streets  and  sordid  alleys. 

One  of  the  loveliest  of  dough's  lyrics,  "  In  a 
London  Square,"  is  said  to  have  been  suggested  by 
a  tree  in  Berkeley  Square.  It  fits  the  season  well, 
and  it  breathes  of  a  certain  hard-won  and  gentle 
fortitude,  very  characteristic  of  Clough,  who,  in 
his  sensitiveness  to  every  vagrant  sympathy  and 
every  influence  of  his  stormy  and  perplexed  century, 
blent  as  it  was  with  a  strenuous  determination  to 
be  true  to  his  own  individual  sense  of  right  and  of 
truth,  was  necessarily  a  man  of  sorrows. 

The  plane-tree,  with  its  daintily  fashioned  tassels 
and  wide,  cool  leaves,  grows  well  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  smoke  and  care  and  struggle  of  sad-hearted, 
fain-to-be-gay,  paradoxical  London ;  shares  its 
rainbow  sunshine  and  sudden  gleams  of  springtide, 

57 


s  OF 

and,  to  those  who  know  the  lyric,  echoes  ever  the 
admonition  to  a  patient  and  hopeful  self-restraint  : 

"Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane, 

East  wind  and  frost  are  safely  gone ; 
With  zephyr  mild  and  balmy  rain 

The  summer  comes  serenely  on  ; 
Earth,  air,  and  sun,  and  skies  combine 

To  promise  all  that's  kind  and  fair  :  — 
But  thou,  O  human  heart  of  mine, 

Be  still,  contain  thyself,  and  bear. 

December  days  were  brief  and  chill, 

The  winds  of  March  were  wild  and  drear, 
And,  nearing  and  receding  still, 

Spring  never  would,  we  thought,  be  here. 
The  leaves  that  burst,  the  suns  that  shine, 

Had,  not  the  less,  their  certain  date  : — 
And  thou,  O  human  heart  of  mine, 

Be  still,  refrain  thyself,  and  wait." 
That  is  one  side  of  Clough,  but  we  find  in  him 
the  verve  and  energy  also  which  breathe  through 
those  other  lines  of  his  : 

"  Go  from  the  east  to  the  west,  as  the  sun  and  the 

stars  direct  thee, 
Go  with  the  girdle  of  man,  go  and  encompass 

the  earth. 
Not  for  the  gain  of  the  gold  ;  for  the  getting,  the 

hoarding,  the  having, 

But  for  the  joy  of  the  deed ;  but  for  the  Duty  to  do. 
Go  with  the  spiritual  life,  the  higher  volition  and 

action, 
With  the  great  girdle  of  God,  go  and  encompass 

the  earth." 
58 


That  impulse  of  world-wide  service  and  un- 
grudging gifts  may  well  be  echoing  through  many 
obscure  lives  to-day  in  the  after-glow  of  those 
celebrations  of  " Empire  Day"  which  we  have 
dedicated  to  the  memory  of  England's  greatest 
Queen  and  to  the  recollection  of  those  vast  and 
humbling  responsibilities  which  unite  the  Mother 
Country  with  her  colonies.  The  way  to  righteous- 
ness and  peace  is  often  a  strait  and  difficult  path, 
where  it  is  only  too  easy  to  be  blinded  by  our  own 
arrogance,  or  trapped  by  our  own  prejudice.  The 
message  of  joy,  of  progress,  of  universal  kinship, 
has  too  often  been  stained,  and  torn,  and  debased. 
It  has  been  blotted  by  many  tears  and  marred  by 
many  cancellings.  But  Clough  was  right  in  those 
last  words  he  wrote  when  he  bade  us  remember 
that  every  noble  effort  avails,  though  its  results 
may  be  to  our  own  eyes  and  those  of  our  own 
generation  invisible.  Every  advancing  wave  falls 
back  a  little.  Every  year  has  its  winter,  but  in 
the  new  beauty  and  resurrection  of  each  year's 
springtide  there  is  ever  a  symbol  of  that 

"  far-off  divine  event, 
To  which  the  whole  creation  moves." 

And  the  last  word  remembered  to-day  shall  be 
from  the  lips  of  Thyrsis,  found  in  a  pencilled  line 
or  two  beneath  his  pillow  when  he  died : 

"  For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main." 

59 


THE  MEMORIAL  TO 
MRS.  BROWNING 

IT  has  been  said  that  we  are  a  nation  of  shop- 
keepers, though  the  shopkeeper  will  naturally 
reply  that  he  may  be  as  noble  as  any  man.  But 
it  may  be  asserted  with  juster  poignancy  that  too 
many  of  our  so-called  leaders  are  now  a  company 
of  fashion-mongers,  who  are  constantly  running 
after  some  new  mode  of  thought  or  novel  literary 
type,  leaving  the  stolid  majority  to  take  out  their 
moral  and  intellectual  tape-measures  for  the 
purpose  of  testing  conformity  with  what  may  be 
called  the  ancient  sartorial  rule  of  thumb,  while 
a  small,  rather  youthful,  contingent  cut  out  old 
ethics  to  suit  new  conventions,  and,  in  their  own 
estimation,  sanctify  folly  itself  with  the  sacred 
word  "  advanced." 

Fifty  years  after  Mrs.  Browning's  death,  among 
the  slaves  to  passing  fashion,  she  was  already  out 
of  fashion.  There  seems  to  have  been  a  difficulty 
in  collecting  the  required  funds  for  the  Ledbury 
Memorial  in  her  honour.  It  is  true  that  her 
noblest  memorial  lives  in  the  hearts  of  that  vast 
unliterary  throng  described  in  our  Authorised 
Version  as  "  the  common  people "  ;  and  also 
in  the  work  of  the  great  poet-theologian,  whose 
influence  was  the  more  masculine  from  the  fact 
that  he  was  too  passionate  to  be  sentimental,  too 
many-sided  to  forget  the  claims  of  this  homely 
human  life  of  ours,  even  when  most  absorbed  in 
60 


TO 

the  eternal  problems,  and  who  wrote  of  his  own 
proudest  achievement : 

"  If  the  rough  ore  be  rounded  to  a  ring, 
Render  all  duty  which  good  ring  should  do, 
And,  failing  grace,  succeed  in  guardianship, 
Might  mine  but  lie  outside  thine,  Lyric  Love, 
Thy  rare  gold  ring  of  verse  (the  poet  praised) 
Linking  our  England  to  his  Italy  !  " 

The  "  posy  "  to  that  ring  is  too  well  known  to 
need  quoting,  and  he  must  indeed  be  dull  of  ear 
who  does  not  feel  the  passionate  music  of  the 
opening  lines : 

"  Oh,  Lyric  Love,  half-angel  and  half-bird, 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire," — 

but  it  is  not  in  these  haunting  lines,  nor  in  the 
last  words  of  "Prospice,"  nor  the  married  melo- 
dies of  "  By  the  Fireside/'  that  Mrs.  Browning's 
influence  is  most  coercive  and  penetrating  for  the 
outside  world,  nor  even,  perhaps,  in  the  "One 
Word  More."  It  is  rather  in  the  whole  fabric  and 
texture  of  Browning's  later  work,  and  especially 
of  that  marvellous  poem  of  which  Pompilia  is  the 
light  and  joy. 

No  one  who  knows  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Aurora 
Leigh  "  intimately  will  be  likely  to  come  to  any 
real  intimacy  also  with  the  poems  Browning 
wrote  after  his  marriage,  and  especially  "  The 
Ring  and  the  Book,"  without  a  sense  of  deeply 
wedded  kinship  here  and  there  between  the  two. 

There  is  a  delightful  line  of  George  Meredith's 
in  which  he  speaks  of  certain  kinds  of  song  as 


OF  7*]{pse 

free  from  "taint  of  personality."  That  certainly 
cannot  be  said  of  either  of  the  Brownings.  In 
spite  of  his  wide  range  and  extraordinary  diversity 
of  subjects,  the  author  of  "  Bishop  Blougram  " 
and  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  "  is  everywhere  unmistak- 
able :  and  in  almost  all  his  multitudinous  poems 
his  robust  and  salient  personality  is  recognisable 
at  a  glance.  That  of  Elizabeth  Barrett,  even 
before  they  were  man  and  wife,  had  probably 
touched  his  mind  and  heart  the  more  poignantly 
because  of  a  vivid  and  delicate,  and  almost  over- 
balancing, emotional  quality  in  it,  which  might 
well  seem  opposed  to  Browning's  own  more 
reticent  and  humorous  storm  and  stress,  though 
both  are  distinguished  by  the  like  vitality  or 
enthusiasm,  the  like  catholic  open-mindedness 
and  unbaffled  reverence.  In  both  there  is  the 
same  boldly  questioning  yet  entirely  unswerving 
faith,  the  same  untiring  affection  for  man  as  man, 
the  same  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  the  body  as 
well  as  the  soul,  the  same  worshipping  delight  in 
the  beauty  of  ideal  womanhood,  the  same  un- 
conquerable belief,  so  finely  expressed  in  "  Aurora 
Leigh,"  that 

"  Earth's  crammed  with  heaven, 
And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God/' 

And,  it  may  be  added,  the  same  humour  to 
perceive  that 

"  Only  he  who  sees,  takes  off  his  shoes  ; 
The  rest  sit  round  it  and  pluck  blackberries." 

Of  that  poem — which  Ruskin  is  said  to  have 
62 


ro  <MI{S. 

named  as  the  greatest  of  his  century — benighted 
Philistines  have  occasionally  asserted  that  it  is 
*  coarse."  Such  people,  if  they  met  the  Angel  of 
Pity,  radiant  with  divine  fire  and  beauty,  would 
merely  complain  that  it  was  indecent  of  him  to 
go  barefoot.  They  need  to  be  reminded,  through 
the  lips  of  Mrs.  Browning  herself,  that  what  they 
consider  the  "  coarsest "  part  of  this  wonderful 
life  of  ours  is  sacred  and  vital  until  the  divine 
breath  is  withdrawn  from  it : 

"  Flower  from  root, 

And  spiritual  from  natural,  grade  by  grade 
In  all  our  life.     A  handful  of  the  earth, 
To  make  God's  image  !  the  despised  poor  earth, 
The  healthy  odorous  earth, — I  missed  with  it 
The  divine  Breath  that  blows  the  nostrils  out 
To  ineffable  afflatus, — ay,  the  breath 
Which  love  is.     Art  is  much,  but  love  is  more. 

Art  symbolises  heaven,  but  Love  is  God 
And  makes  heaven." 

Mrs.  Browning  did  her  work  so  well  that  her 
truths  have  become  our  truisms.  We  are,  after 
all,  an  ungrateful  host.  In  all  social  reform  we 
have  adopted  her  ideas  so  completely  that  half  of 
us  forget  they  are  hers.  In  a  bygone  day,  when 
courage  was  needed,  this  modest  and  brave 
woman,  out  of  the  deep  joy  of  her  own  happy 
love  and  ideal  marriage,  took  to  herself  the  out- 
cast and  forgotten,  and,  in  the  power" of  her  great 
poem,  moved  a  smug  and  pharisaical  world  to 
rescue  the  fallen,  to  redeem  the  poor,  and  to  face 

63 


OF 

with    some    degree    of  honesty   social    problems 
which  had  been  selfishly  ignored. 

Let  it  be  once  more  conceded  without  hesitation 
that  her  best  memorial  lives  on  in  her  husband's 
work  and  in  her  own,  and  in  that  change  in 
the  theology  and  social  ethics  of  England,  a 
change  that  might  almost  be  called  a  revolu- 
tion, in  which  both  the  Brownings  have  had  a 
deeper  share  than  is  ordinarily  recognised.  But 
when  the  country  of  her  birth  is  asked  for  a 
visible  token  of  gratitude  it  were  shameful  to 
haggle  about  the  price  or  complain  that  there  is  no 
money  in  the  national  purse.  We  are  a  cold  and 
stolid  people,  and  occasionally  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  slowness  of  emotion,  which  we  secretly 
vaunt  as  indication  of  faithfulness,  does  not  by 
any  means  stand  the  test  of  adversity  and  of  time, 
so  that  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Mrs.  Browning- 
was  sometimes  angry  with  England  in  the  deep 
wrath  of  wounded  affection.  There  are  certain 
lines  in  her  "  Summing  up  in  Italy  (inscribed  to 
intelligent  publics  out  of  it)  "  which  hit  us  hard 
in  our  moods  of  political  selfishness  and  cowardice. 
Even  in  remembrance  and  in  constancy  we  seem 
to  have  fallen  behind  "her  Italy."  Long  ago 
the  municipality  of  Florence  placed  on  Casa 
Guidi  their  noble  memorial  to  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  of  whom  they  wrote  there,  in  the 
words  of  Tommaseo,  "Che  in  cuore  di  donna 
conciliave  scienze  di  dotto,  e  spirito  di  poeta." 
We  cannot  equal  the  beauty  of  the  Florentine 
inscription,  of  which  only  a  fragment  is  given 
here.  Of  her  it  may  be  said  with  truth,  as 


TO  Jti'QS. 

indeed  is  witnessed  by  her  own  words,  that  "her 
Christianity  was  not  confined  to  church  and 
rubrics — it  meant  civilisation."  There  has  been 
no  attempt  here  at  any  critical  appraisement  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  precise  standing  as  an  artist, 
though,  whatever  may  be  the  deductions  and 
admissions  demanded  by  such  an  appraisement,  it 
is  only  necessary  to  remember  that  she  wrote  the 
so-called  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese "  in 
order  to  ensure  her  unassailable  place  among  the 
poets.  But  there  are  many  who  are  careless  of 
poetry  and  who  yet  owe  her  a  debt  of  lasting 
gratitude  for  her  work  in  the  cause  of  social  and 
political  reform. 


A  FLOWER  FOR  MRS.  BROWNING'S 
GRAVE 

THERE  is  one  flower  which  cannot  be  laid  too  often 
on  Mrs.  Browning's  grave,  for  it  is  her  husband's 
own  gift.  It  blooms  perennially,  and  there  may 
well  be  surprise  that  there  are  not  more  hands  tearing 
down  the  sprays  of  blossom  to  do  her  honour. 

On  this  day,  the  anniversary  of  her  birth,  such  an 
offering  may  well  be  wreathed  about  her  memory. 

In  the  many  disquisitions  on  "  The  Ring  and 
the  Book"  one  subject  of  deep  interest  may  not 
impossibly  have  escaped  many  of  the  learned  com- 
mentators, because  it  is  not  a  point  of  scholarship, 
but  of  elementary  human  interest.  I  refer  to 
what  I  cannot  but  believe  to  have  been  Browning's 
reason  for  choosing  so  extraordinary  and  terrible 
a  story,  as  his  basis  of  fact,  in  the  great  dramatic 
poem  dedicated  to  his  wife's  memory — the  essential 
metal  in  that  elaborately  wrought  "  guard  ring  " 
wherewith  he  protected  the  golden  circlet  of  love 
and  poesy  that  had  claimed  his  wife  in  an  eternal 
marriage. 

We  have  his  own  explicit  authority  for  his  un- 
bounded admiration  of  "  Aurora  Leigh,"  that 
dramatic  romance  in  which  a  happy  wife  and 
mother  wrote  with  all  the  courage  of  virtue  and  of 
love,  on  behalf  of  her  outcast  sisters  on  the  one  hand 
and  of  her  noble  ideal  of  marriage  on  the  other. 

No  so-called  love  was  to  Mrs.  Browning  worthy 
of  the  name  unless  it  was  that  supreme  and 
66 


irrevocable  passion  which  is  of  its  own  nature 
divine,  and  therefore  divinely  pure  and  enduring 
and  unselfish.  But  she  perceived  that,  in  the  out- 
cry of  society  against  moral  debasement  and 
corruption,  the  vengeance  not  seldom  fell  with 
vulgar  and  indiscriminating  severity  on  one  who 
was  often  the  victim  rather  than  the  culprit,  and 
in  the  name  of  the  Highest  she  cast  her  stainless 
shield  upon  the  innocent  while  plunging  her  fiery 
sword  into  the  guilty — not  only  those  guilty  in 
the  eyes  of  convention,  but  those  guilty  of  the 
greedy  frivolity,  the  sanctimonious  crookedness, the 
petty  hypocrisies,  for  which  her  religion  reserved 
its  most  scathing  denunciation,  the  immorality  not 
of  the  "  sinner,"  but  of  the  Pharisee. 

In  that  old  law  case  recorded  by  the  little  yellow 
book  which  Browning  picked  up  on  the  Florentine 
bookstall,  he  found  just  the  weapon  he  wanted 
for  a  worthy  continuation  of  her  holy  crusade ; 
for  the  events  of  which  he  read  there  made  up  a 
tragedy  of  blood  and  fire  upon  the  pages  of  human 
history.  The  murder  was  an  actual  murder  of 
the  most  sanguinary  description,  the  fire  was  that 
divine  fire  which  lights  the  temple  of  humanity 
with  a  Presence  more  beautiful  than  anything  that 
can  be  fully  manifested  under  conditions  of  time 
and  space. 

Human  love  was  to  the  Brownings  no  less  ideal 
in  significance  than  what,  in  our  ignorance,  we 
may  assume  to  have  been  the  symbolism  of  the 
sacred  flaming  rose,  in  the  mystic  lore  of  the  Rosi- 
crucians.  Aurora  Leigh  describes  that  highest 
human  love  as  the  reflection  of  divine  mystery, 


OF 

"  Sweet  shadow-rose,  upon  the  water  of  life, 
Of  such  a  mystic  substance,  Sharon  gave 
A  name  to !  human,  vital,  fructuous  rose, 
Whose  calyx  holds  the  multitude  of  leaves, — 
Loves  filial,  loves  fraternal,  neighbour  loves, 
And  civic  ...  all  fair  petals,  all  good  scents, 
All  reddened,  sweetened  from  one  central 
Heart !  " 

And  Pompilia,  when  she  is  dying  far  away  from 
the  man  from  whom  she  seems  to  the  onlooker  to 
be  hopelessly  separated,  knows  well  that  in  so 
profound  a  love  neither  death  nor  distance  can 
divide,  and  that  even  in  the  life  beyond  she  will 
feel  the  comfort  of  his  hand.  Neither  for  him 
nor  for  herself  does  she  ask  anything  more  of 
earth.  It  is  in  the  face  of  death  that  she  says  : 

"  No  work  begun  shall  ever  pause  for  death ! 
Love  will  be  helpful  to  me  more  and  more 
F  the  coming  course,  the  new  path  I  must  tread, 
My  weak  hand  in  thy  strong  hand,  strong  for 

that! 

Tell  him  that  if  I  seem  without  him  now, 
That's  the  world's  insight !  Oh,  he  under- 
stands ! 

So  let  him  wait  God's  instant  men  call  years ; 
Meantime  hold  hard  by  truth  and  his  great  soul, 
Do  out  the  duty  !  " 

Browning  might    well  feel — and  not   least   in 
those  first  years   of  his  bereavement — that  here 
indeed  was  the  rosemary  which  he  desired  to  twine 
about  the  beloved  name. 
68 


An  essay  necessarily  limited  with  regard  to 
space  does  not  allow  detailed  examination  of  the 
interweaving  thought  and  feeling  which  make  the 
hidden  pattern,  in  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the 
two  poems,  such  as  I  hope  to  indicate  more  fully 
elsewhere. 

But  the  main  contention  of  this  brief  article  is 
so  broad  and  simple  as  to  appeal  even  to  the  pro- 
verbial "  man  in  the  street."  Nowhere  can  it  be 
more  fittingly  emblazoned  than  on  the  pages  of  a 
paper  devoted  to  the  cares  and  hopes  of  the  com- 
monalty, and  to  the  civic  interests  of  a  great 
thronging  city  like  our  own. 

The  words  of  Caponsacchi's  Shepherd-Judge, 
when  speaking  of  himself  as  an  ancient  gardener 
who  is  talking  concerning  the  flowers  in  his  en- 
closure, the  women  among  whom  he  exercised  his 
pastoral  office,  may  doubtless  be  echoed  by  many 
a  twentieth-century  preacher,  who  finds  amonghis 
gay  congregation  a  less  exalted  beauty  of  character 
than  in  some  low-born  injured  woman,  of  whom, 
it  may  be,  Pompilia  was  the  prototype  and  fore- 
runner, while  herself  the  typical  successor  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  daring  imaginative  conception  as  em- 
bodied in  Marian  Erie,  notwithstanding  that 
Pompilia's  motherhood  had  been  legalised  by  a 
form  of  marriage,  which  to  her  childish  ignorance 
had  conveyed  no  meaning.  Marian  Erie  may 
have  been  solely  a  puppet  of  the  poet's  brain  ; 
Pompilia  was  a  living,  breathing  woman,  the 
creation  of  that  Master  from  whose  hand  we  all 
must  needs  learn 


OF 

"  Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's 
true  play." 

Yet  of  both  the  Angel  of  the  earthly  garden  might 
have  said,  as  did  the  old  Pope  of  Pompilia  : 

"  Those  be  the  plants,  imbedded  yonder  South 
To  mellow  in  the  morning,  those  made  fat 
By  the  master's  eye,  that  yield  such  timid  leaf, 
Uncertain  bud,  as  product  of  his  pains ! 
While — see   how  this  mere  chance-sown,  cleft- 
nursed  seed, 

That  sprang  up  by  the  wayside  'neath  the  foot 
Of  the  enemy,  this  breaks  all  into  blaze, 
Spreads  itself,  one  wide  glory  of  desire 
To  incorporate  the  whole  great  sun  it  loves 
From  the  inch-height  whence  it  looks  and  longs  ! 

my  flower, 
My  rose,  I  gather  for  the  breast  of  God." 

Well  might  Browning  say  of  Pompilia's  history 
that  here  was  a  story  straight  to  his  hand,  for  it 
gave  him  the  very  sword  and  ring  and  posy 
wherewith  in  his  wife's  name  he  might  strike 
many  a  ringing  blow  at  the  social  corruption 
which  she  had  fought  so  nobly  on  behalf  of  the 
defenceless,  a  fight  in  which  her  own  unsullied 
name  and  ideal  love  had  strengthened  the  efficacy 
of  her  championship. 

Well  also  might  he  write  of  her  in  his  immortal 
dedication  as  of  one  "half-angel  and  half-bird," 
who,  borne  aloft  on  the  wings  of  divine  poetry, 
was  ever  ready  at  the  call  of  suffering  or  abase- 
ment to  come  down  to  earth 

"  To  toil  for  man,  to  suffer  or  to  die." 
70 


MRS.  BROWNING  AS  A  SOCIAL 
REFORMER 

THE  vital  quality    of   Mrs.    Browning's  work  is 
the  more  impressive  when  brought    with  all  its 
trenchant  variety  in  prose  and  verse  within  the 
convenient    compass    of    three    small    volumes. 
Without  going  so  far  as  one  of  our  greatest  writers, 
who  is  said  to  have  named   "  Aurora  Leigh  "  as 
the  greatest  poem  of  the  last  century,  it  is  hardly 
possible  to  doubt  that  Aurora,  through  whose  lips 
Mrs.  Browning  spoke,  did  change,  imperceptibly 
yet  profoundly,  the  whole  attitude  of  the  insular 
English  mind  with  regard  to  one  social  question, 
so    that   forgetfulness  of  the    unmeasured    debt 
which  we  owe  to  her  is  only  an  indication  of  its 
lasting    reality,    inasmuch    as    what    was    most 
courageous   and  amazing  to  her  own  generation 
now  astonishes  few  save  the  ignorant  or  the  un- 
reasoning, and  may  be  said  to  leaven  all  enlightened 
Christian  ethics,  whether  of  thought  or  of  action. 
In  his  characterisation  of  the  highest  woman- 
hood   as    essentially  differing    from   the    highest 
manhood,  in  a  royalty  always  shared  by  both  and 
always  correlative,  Ruskin  reminds  us,  in  words 
too  memorable  to  be  either  paraphrased  or  for- 
gotten, that  "  what  the  woman  is  to  be  within  her 
gates,  as  the  centre  of  order,  the  balm  of  distress, 
and  the  mirror  of  beauty,  that  she  is  also  to  be 
without  her  gates,  where  order  is  more  difficult, 
distress    more  imminent,  loveliness  more  rare." 

71 


OF  TROSS 

And  looking  back  through  the  Victorian  age  of 
literature  on  those  who  fulfilled  this  ideal  in  the 
world  of  letters,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  be  alto- 
gether blind  to  the  distinguished  services  rendered 
by  the  collected  poems  just  reissued.  For,  in 
gazing  closely  on  the  nineteenth  century,  and 
especially  on  the  middle  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  amid  the  splendid  toil  and  ever-fructifying 
harvest  of  those  masculine  forces  in  philosophy,  in 
science,  and  in  history,  which  by  the  hands  of 
men  have  given  to  our  race  new  powers  of  social 
economy,  intellectual  freedom  and  material  wealth, 
while  echoing  Ruskin's  ascription  of  the  highest 
powers  of  knowledge  and  discretion  to  man,  as  the 
ruler,  the  inventor,  the  defender,  we  find  a  rein- 
forcement also  of  his  belief  in  woman's  province  as 
that  of  sovereign  guidance  at  the  very  heart  of 
life.  The  writings  of  a  handful  of  high-minded 
and  fearless  women,  among  whom  Mrs.  Browning 
stood  facile  princeps,  have  had  a  primary  share  in 
the  reawakening  of  the  dormant  national  con- 
science on  questions  of  practical  religion,  and  have 
broken  down  those  cold  artificial  traditions  which 
straitened  compassion  and  shut  out  the  visible 
presence  of  the  Master.  It  is  true  that,  in  this, 
woman  did  not  stand  alone  : 

"The  woman's  cause  is  man's — they  rise  or  sink 
together." 

Scott  and  Thackeray  and  Dickens — to  mention 
only  three  out  of  the  many  names  that  throng  to 
mind — each  in  his  several  way,  did  much  to 
make  the  ice-bound  hedges  less  thorny  in  rigid 
72 


SOCIAL 

obstructiveness.  But  a  man  would  have  to  be 
either  more  or  less  than  a  man  before  he  could 
penetrate  the  inmost  defences  of  feminine  vanity 
and  self-deception  with  the  piercing  weapons  and 
unsparing  zeal  of  such  a  Britomart  as  Mrs. 
Browning.  There  are  some  subjects  on  which 
only  a  woman  could  so  poignantly  and  un- 
answerably appeal  to  women  themselves. 

Mrs.  Browning's  stainless  name  and  high  and 
noble  character  lent  an  added  brightness  to  the 
sword  which  always  has  "the  strength  of  ten" 
for  one  whose  "  heart  is  pure."  Moreover,  her 
crusade  was  all  the  more  powerful,  and  the  more 
moving,  because  even  the  basest  mind  could  not 
in  her  case  represent  it  as  the  outcome  of  any 
personal  bitterness.  For  her  life  was  crowned 
with  the  "  ecstasy  "  and 

"  mystery  of  love, 

In  which  absorbed,  loss,  anguish,  treason's  self 
Enlarges  rapture." 

The  sanctity  of  marriage  was  to  her  no  mere 
article  of  faith,  though  it  was  that  too,  but  a 
part  of 

"Love,  the  soul  of  soul,  within  the  soul, 
Evolving  it  sublimely.     First,  God's  love. 
And  next,  [he  smiled,]  the  love  of  wedded  souls 
Which  still  presents  that  mystery's  counterpart." 

Supremely  happy  in  her  own  married  love,  she 
was  overwhelmed  with  compassion  for  those  who 
had  met  such  anguish  of  treason  as  had  never 
approached  her  own  life. 

73 


OF 

Even  if  Browning  had  not  written  his  "  Posy  to 
the  Ring,"  it  would  still  not  have  been  difficult 
to  understand  the  singular  appropriateness  of  such 
an  offering  as  "The  Ring  and  the  Book  "to  her  who 
had,  with  brave  and  unmistakable  clearness,  taught 
that  women  who  stood  high  in  their  own  order, 
for  virtue  and  piety,  were  blinding  themselves  to 
the  corporate  responsibility  of  all  womanhood 
and  degrading  their  own  protected  liberty,  by 
ignoring,  with  that  most  scathing  contempt  of 
all,  which  declines  even  to  see,  the  ignorance,  the 
danger,  the  deadening  agony,  of  many  of  those 
who,  less  guarded  than  themselves,  were  yet  of 
like  flesh  and  blood,  members  of  the  same  great 
human  family. 

Careful  reading  of  "The  Ring  and  the  Book" 
will  emphasise  the  special  significance  of  such  a 
votive  offering  to  her  who,  crowned  with  ideal 
wifehood  and  rejoicing  motherhood,  had  been  the 
champion  of  women  and  children  for  her  own  time 
and  for  all  time,  and  whose  Marian  Erie  had  felt 
as  Pompilia  did  about  her  own  little  son,  that 
beyond  her,  his  mother,  her  child  had  no  claimant 
except  God.  Through  certain  lines  from  "  Aurora 
Leigh,"  uplifted  and  transfigured  in  "The  Posy," 
Browning  makes  us  feel  anew,  of  the  poet  who 
taught  and  laboured  through  Aurora's  lips,  that  it 
was  in  her  tender  ardour  of  service  that  to  him  she 
was  most  divine.  And  has  she  not  herself  reminded 
us  that 

"  The  man  most  man,  with  tenderest  human  hands, 
Works  best  for  men,  as  God  in  Nazareth  "  ? 

74 


SOCIAL 

"How  sound  of  heart  and  clear  of  head,"  how 
replenished  with  heavenly  common  sense,  is  the 
best  and  most  potent  of  Aurora's  wisdom,  and  how 
delightful  often  in  its  salient  sense  of  laughter  as 
well  as  tears !  It  is  difficult  to  choose  where  there 
is  such  wealth,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  find  her  hitting 
out  squarely  at  one  modern  fashion  of  cant  in  the 
lines : 

"  Mere  passion  will  not  prove  a  volume  worth 
Its  gall  and  rags  even.     Bubbles  round  a  keel 
Mean  nought,  excepting  that  the  vessel  moves. 
There's  more  than  passion  goes  to  make  a  man 
Or  book." 

The  pungent  humour  is  insistent  everywhere, 
whether  it  be  in  the  graphic  touch  which  describes 
how  certain  good  men  drew  back  their  chairs  when 
they  shrank  away  from  the  utterance  of  a  coarse 
and  unchivalrous  personality, 

"  As  if  they  spied  black-beetles  on  the  floor," 
or  in  that  description  of  the  other  sort  of  man  who 

"  Sets  his  virtues  on  so  raised  a  shelf, 
He  has  to  mount  a  stool  to  get  at  them, 
And  meantime  lives  on  quite  the  common  way 
With  everybody's  morals." 

But  there  is  abundant  power  of  another  kind,  as 
in  that  prayer  to  the  "Supreme  Artist"  for  those 
who 

"  sit  by  solitary  fires 

And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off" ; 

75 


s  OF 

or  in  those  other  lines  which  flash  upon  us  the 
first  moment  of  a  perfect  understanding  between 
soul  and  soul : 

"  As  when  the  sudden  finger  of  the  wind 
Will  wipe  a  row  of  single  city-lamps 
To  a  pure  white  line  of  flame,  more  luminous 
Because  of  obliteration  ;  more  intense,— 
The  intimate  presence  carrying  in  itself 
Complete  communication,  as  with  souls 
Who,  having  put  the  body  off,  perceive 
Through  simply  being." 

Few  can  doubt  that,  although  such  living  verse  as 
"Cowper's  Grave"  and  "The  Sleep"  and  " Con- 
fessions "  will  echo  down  the  centuries  in  the 
power  of  a  vital  faith  and  a  poet's  intensity  of 
simple  human  feeling,  Mrs.  Browning's  most 
certain  claim  to  a  permanent  place  in  English 
literature — a  claim  more  certain  even  than  that 
won  by  such  poems  as  "A  Musical  Instrument" 
and  "  My  Kate,"  or  by  the  throb  of  a  world-wide 
patriotism  in  her  flaming  and  beautiful  lyrics  for 
Italy — will  rest  upon  those  "  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese  "  which  never  existed  in  any  language 
save  the  language  of  the  heart,  until  she  wrote  them 
and  hid  them  away,  where  Browning  afterwards 
found  them  and  urged  that  the  world  should  have 
the  joy  of  them.  The  sonnets  alone  would  have 
secured  her  immortality.  But,  had  she  written 
nothing  else,  notwithstanding  that  their  intrinsic 
value  as  sonnets  would  have  remained  the  same, 
yet  without  her  work  as  a  social  reformer  on 
behalf  of  suffering  women  and  children,  they 
76 


M1(S.  B%pfr$yp(G  SOCIAL 

would  have  lost  an  added  charm  as  part  of  the 
expression  of  a  noble  personality.  She  who  wrote 
"  Aurora  Leigh  "  and  "  The  Cry  of  the  Children  " 
sowed  a  multiplying  harvest  in  many  widely  differ- 
ing fields.  It  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate 
all  the  unselfish  battles  and  redeeming  labours  into 
which  her  spirit  has  crept.  Through  many  a 
heart  there  rings  ever  the  refrain  of  her  words  : 

"  Patient  children — think  what  pain 
Makes  a  young  child  patient — ponder  ! 
Wronged  too  commonly  to  strain 
After  right,  or  wish,  or  wonder." 

Marriage  and  birth  and  death — all  were  to  Mrs. 
Browning  the  revelation  of  the  Divine  in  the  human. 
We  think  instinctively  of  her  to  whom  "The 
Ring  and  the  Book "  was  dedicated  when  Pom- 
pilia,  whose  son  was  born  at  this  season,  blissful  in 
the  new-born  human  light,  kindled  in  the  Divine 
Light,  tells  us  : 

"  Christmas  before  me — was  not  that  a  chance  ? 
I  never  realised  God's  birth  before — 
How  he  grew  likest  God  in  being  born. 
This  time  I  felt  like  Mary,  had  my  babe 
Lying  a  little  on  my  breast  like  hers." 

And  in  the  name  of  the  Divine  Love,  whose 
festival  we  keep,  she  pleads  with  us  for  every  little 
human  child  to-day,  most  of  all  for  every  child 
who  is  grieved  or  injured  or  forgotten. 

If  some,  who  are  children  no  longer,  are  sad 
because  this  Christmas  there  seems  to  be  one  child 
missing,  she  has  a  message  for  them  also.  In  the 

77 


OF  <p%pse 

same  volume  that  contains  "Aurora  Leigh"  she 
tells  us  of  God  : 

"  He  lends  not  ;  but  gives  to  the  end, 
As  he  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 
That  he  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 

'Tis  to  add  to  it  rather  —  amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream. 


So  look  up,  friends  !     You,  who  indeed 

Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet  piece 
Of  the  Heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are,  —  speed 

Where  they  loiter,  persist  where  they  cease." 


A  SONG  OF  NOBEL  THOMSON 

For  a  moment  when  the  mind  of  the  singer  is  at  play 

"Never   mind!"    or    "No    matter!"    old    dis- 
putants said. 
Now,   "  mind  is  all  matter  " — "  all  matter  is 

mind"— 

The  myriad  electrons  will  never  be  dead, 
For  now  Nobel  Thomson  has  nobly  defined 
Their  name,  that  of  corpuscles — well  underlined  ! 
Altho'  the  great  riddle  of  earth  be  unread, 
No  negative  answer  can  crush  us  with  dread, 

The  old  mocking  "  Nay"  is  to  limbo  assigned  ; 

The  " negatives  "  now  are  with  "  positives"  wed, 

And  all  things  are  fashioned  by  Life,    Love, 

and  Mind ; 

For  even  the  blankest  "  material  "  creed 
Proclaims  omnipresent,  fulfilling  our  need, 

The    Force  in    our    dust    that    has    moulded 

mankind, 
Wrought   Beauty,  Truth,   Goodness,   for   man's 

daily  Bread ! — 

The    great    veil   is    trembling:     ah,  what    lies 
behind  ? 


79 


THE  GLEAM 

WINTER  has  not  yet  vanished,  but  to-day  there  is 
a  foreboding  of  spring.  The  aconites  are  up. 
The  woodbine  leaves  are  unfolding  their  soft, 
delicious  green.  The  spears  of  daffodil  and  lily- 
of-the-valley  have  already  pierced  the  mould. 
Although,  at  this  sunny  noonday  hour,  the  birds 
are  quiet,  save  for  a  sweet  twittering  amid  the 
gay  tumult  of  the  south-west  wind,  there  have 
been  joyous  bursts  of  melody  at  evening  and  in 
the  morning,  and  already  Little  Bo-peep's  "  lambs' 
tails  "  are  hanging  on  the  boughs  of  the  hazel- 
trees.  The  skies  are  full  of  a  strange  mystic 
beauty — pearly  bars  through  which  the  pale  azure 
of  infinite  distances  may  at  moments  be  seen  to 
gleam  translucently,  and  at  other  moments  a 
nearer  and  more  earthly  brilliance,  though  still  of 
the  heavens,  a  blueness,  vivid  as  nemophila  flowers, 
looks  laughingly.  The  funereal  beauty  of  the 
dark  pines,  with  their  plume-like  enrobing  and 
red-brown  stems,  does  but  emphasise  the  light 
and  colour  of  the  surrounding  world,  the  rich 
warmth  of  the  ploughed  fields,  the  peculiar  fawn- 
like  brown  of  last  year's  oak-leaves,  which  seem 
to  cling  to  the  boughs  expressly  to  catch  every 
passing  vibration  of  the  cool  and  delicate  sunlight, 
the  mossy  tints  of  the  fragrant  arbor  vitae,  the 
shining  silver  of  the  birch-stems  that  re-echo  the 
silvery  tints  of  the  harmless  low-lying  clouds. 

Already  I  have  heard  the  lambs  calling  to  their 
80 


rne 

mothers,  in  a  field  just  out  of  sight  beyond  the 
pine-copse ;  and  long  ago  the  tiny  buds  have  been 
showing  on  my  youthful  mountain  ash  that  is 
hardly  much  taller  than  a  maid  of  sixteen  summers, 
a  prim,  yet  graceful,  tree,  whose  upward-forking 
branches,  that  still  show  clustered  stalks  where 
the  birds  have  bared  them  of  every  scarlet  berry, 
make  a  favourite  perch  for  my  redbreasts  when 
they  come  to  remind  me  that  it  is  their  lunch- 
time. 

It  is  a  day  of  swiftly  chasing  lights  and 
shadows,  a  day  that  shows  the  lovely  under-side 
of  the  leaves  blown  backward  by  the  wind,  and 
emphasises  the  amazing  glossiness  of  the  laurels 
— a  day  when  it  is  not  difficult  to  realise  for  once 
that  we  are  sailing  gaily  through  the  circum- 
ambient air,  with  the  dear  old  earth  as  our  flying- 
boat,  and  all  the  stars  for  our  companions.  Petty 
cares  and  ambitions  are  put  to  flight.  There  is  a 
moving  Presence  in  wood  and  field. 

"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter," 

and  on  the  invisible  ladder,  'twixt  the  lower  and 
the  higher,  "  young  angels  pass."  The  thoughts 
of  the  young  poet  and  the  old  intermingle — the 
thought  of  Keats,  who  gave  us  the  famous  line 
about  music  that  is  "  unheard  "  in  the  sense  in 
which  God  is  unseen,  and  the  thought  of  Tenny- 
son, who  in  his  last  years  wrote,  in  his  perfect 
lyric  of  the  spring,  those  childlike  and  beautiful 
words  about  the  "  young  angels  "  that  ascend  and 
descend  amid  the  unfolding  ecstasy.  It  is  a  day 

F  81 


OF  TfiOSS 

when  the  "  Gleam "  of  which  Tennyson  sang 
enters  many  a  heart,  that  does  not  know  itself  for 
a  poet,  yet  arises  to  "  follow  the  Gleam  " — at 
once  tranquillised  and  inspirited  by  the  touch  of 
some  infinite  possibility  beyond  the  credence  of 
the  mere  senses,  a  possibility  of  which  Beauty, 
Truth,  and  Love  are  but  differing  aspects — a  day 
when  in  many  a  soul  there  wakes,  however 
dumbly,  something  of  the  fine  courage  that 
breathes  through  the  verses  of  that  later  poet  who 
has  written  : 

"  I  will  not  doubt,  though  all  my  ships  at  sea 
Come  drifting  home  with  broken  masts  and 

sails  ; 

I  shall  believe  the  Hand  that  never  fails, 
From  seeming  evil  worketh  good  for  me  ; 
And  though  I  weep  because  those  sails  are 

battered, 
Still  will  I  cry,  while  my  best  hopes  lie  shattered, 

<I  trust  in  Thee/ 
•  •  •  • 

"  I  will  not  doubt  ;  well  anchored  in  the  faith, 
Like  some  staunch  ship,  my  soul  braves  every 

gale; 

So  strong  its  courage  that  it  will  not  fail 
To  breast  the  mighty  unknown  sea  of  Death. 
Oh,  may  I  cry,  when  body  parts  with  spirit, 
'  I  do  not  doubt,'  so  listening  worlds  may  hear  it, 

With  my  last  breath." 


82 


A  FRAGMENT 

WAS  it  of  love  or  of  spring-time  that  Caponsacchi 
was  speaking  when  he  said  : 

"  I  paced  the  city :  it  was  the  first  Spring. 
By  the  invasion  I  lay  passive  to, 
In  rushed  new  things,  the  old  were  rapt  away  "  ? 

He  had  just  seen  Pompilia,  the  woman  whose 
noble  simplicity  and  purity  were  to  be  among  the 
regenerating  forces  which  awakened  him  to  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  a  " fribble"  and  "cox- 
comb "  ;  but  it  is  with  a  quite  literal  meaning  also 
that  he  tells  us  that  "  it  was  the  new  Spring." 

Love  and  spring-time — what  new  thing  can  be 
said  of  either,  except  that  the  eternal  parable  is 
rewritten  every  Easter,  sealed  with  the  profound 
significance  of  the  most  joyous  fact  in  the  world's 
history,  and  prophesying  "some  far-off  divine 
event,"  in  which  shall  be  consummated  that 
deepest  and  purest  love  of  all,  which  is,  we  are 
told,  even  more  enduring  than  faith  and  hope  ? 

Once  again  the  earth  is  putting  forth  her 
symbols  and  unfolding  her  beautiful  hieroglyph, 
not  only  in  field  and  lane  and  woodland,  but  even 
in  the  byways  and  corners  of  town  and  city. 
Already  the  rosy  splendour  of  the  almond-trees 
has  glowed  and  paled  again,  and  the  leafless  elms 
have  shown  their  clusters  of  dusky  red  blossoms, 
and  now  I  have  seen  one  of  them  opening  its  green 
buds.  Lilacs  are  rapidly  unfolding  their  leaves, 

83 


OF 

and  here  and  there  the  hawthorns  are  showing  a 
bright  verdure. 

In  London  the  spring  must  always  carry  with 
it  a  certain  charm  of  surprise  and  incongruity. 
The  exquisite  cleanness  of  the  new  leaves  and 
flowers,  the  stainless  splendour  of  the  vernal  tints, 
the  exhilarating  purity  of  the  early  perfumes — 
who  would  look  for  these  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
smoke  and  grime,  so  much  that  is  sordid,  or 
worldly,  or  poverty-stricken  ?  Yet  here  they  are, 
unsullied  as  an  angel's  wing  and  sweet  as  the  airs 
of  heaven.  Already  I  have  seen  the  loveliness  of  the 
budding  trees  at  the  back  of  the  Marylebone  Work- 
house ;  already,  after  an  early  shower,  I  have  met 
the  penetrating  and  delicious  odour  of  the  sweet- 
poplar  in  St.  James's  Square — so  unmistakable 
a  fragrance  that,  though  I  have  not  discovered  the 
tree,  which  may  be  hiding  in  a  back  garden  or 
round  an  area  corner,  I  know  that  it  is  there,  as 
we  know  the  sun  is  shining  when  we  feel  the  light 
in  our  eyes.  There  are  sheltered  bits  in  Kensington 
Gardens  which  are  already  "a  mist  of  green,  and 
nothing  perfect,"  and  the  little  blue  scyllas  seem 
to  be  blooming  this  year  even  more  fully  than 
usual  in  outlying  garden  plots.  As  I  stood 
last  Sunday  morning  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
watching  the  crowd  of  pigeons  that  walked  about 
tamely  and  companionably  round  the  feet  of  the 
children  who  were  feeding  them,  I  saw  that  the 
crocuses  were  at  their  most  perfect  moment  of 
blooming,  and  recalled  a  charming  letter  from 
Mr.  G.  D.  Leslie  to  his  friend  Mr.  Marks,  in 
which  he  evolves  a  theory  of  his  own  as  to  why  the 


gold  crocus  is  generally  smaller  than  the  purple  or 
the  white. 

I  know  of  one  town  in  the  Midlands,  full  of 
hot  and  noisy  factories,  where,  at  this  time  of  year, 
the  little  windows  of  the  back  streets  in  the  slums 
used  to  be  adorned  with  glasses  of  the  purple 
crocus,  plucked  by  the  eager  flower-loving  factory 
"hands"  and  their  children,  down  in  the  flat 
meadows  by  the  winding  Trent.  In  those  fields, 
in  bygone  days,  the  wild  anemone,  which  generally 
is  found  in  the  woods,  was  wont  to  grow  with  a 
special  grace  and  vigour,  the  witchery  of  its  deli- 
cate outline  enhanced  by  the  deeper  pink  in  its 
pencillings,  which  it  owed  probably  to  the  lavish 
moisture. 

Here  in  the  south  only  the  plane-tree,  our 
London  tree  par  excellence,  still  remains  bare, 
except  for  the  three  little  fairy-like  balls  of  last 
year,  which  hang  here  and  there  from  the  branches, 
and  mark  it  out  almost  as  distinctively  as  the 
peeling  of  the  bark.  On  the  north  side  of  London 
the  coltsfoot  is  in  full  bloom,  and  I  have  seen  it 
also  in  Kent,  where  the  earliest  fruit  trees  are 
beginning  to  be  snowy.  The  grey  and  gold  of 
the  sunset  on  Sunday  evening  was  hardly  more 
beautiful  than  the  later  sky  which  followed,  when 
the  moon  and  stars  looked  down  through  fleecy 
clouds  and  far-away  azure  deeps.  And  there  has 
been  more  than  one  afternoon  since,  when  the  Law 
Courts  and  National  Gallery,  in  the  very  heart  of 
our  great  thoroughfares,  have  gloomed  forth 
grandly  against  a  pale  gold  background,  touched 
with  diaphanous  cloud-ripples. 

85 


S  OF  <piiose 

London  owes  much  of  its  supreme  fascination  to 
the  river  and  to  the  birds  which  fly  above  it. 
Sea-gulls  and  swallows  are  among  the  most  beauti- 
ful birds  in  the  world,  and  there  are  a  host  of 
others  that,  when  the  swallows  are  here  with  the 
May-time,  will  be  sharing  London  festivities  with 
them.  It  is  wonderful  how  many  singing-birds 
seem  to  make  themselves  happy  in  suburban 
gardens.  But  it  was  further  afield  that  I  this 
year  heard  the  skylark  most  jubilant,  some  three 
weeks  ago,  beyond  Eltham,  one  sunny,  windy 
morning,  when  I  watched  two  English  girls  on 
horseback  taking  their  ditches  very  prettily,  in 
company  with  a  young  brother,  whose  horse  at  first 
refused  to  follow  for  all  the  urging  in  the  world. 
The  lark  was  pouring  forth  his  "  harmonious  mad- 
ness "  above  a  bit  of  grass-land,  such  as  may  often 
be  found  just  outside  London.  It  is  surprising 
what  a  variety  of  field  and  woodland  and  wild, 
blossomy  common,  surround  this  huge,  struggling 
city.  We  owe  much  to  those  hard-working  en- 
thusiasts who  have  secured  to  us  open  spaces  within 
our  borders,  and  turned  ill-kempt  burial-grounds 
into  cheering  gardens.  It  is  a  moment  when  every 
one  wishes  success  to  the  hard-worked  people 
who  are  doing  their  best  to  save  the  glories  of 
tree  and  moorland  from  the  hand  of  the  artificial 
spoiler. 

Among  London  schemes  which  appeal  to  all 
hearts  alike,  apart  from  party  prejudice  or  theo- 
logical wrangling,  there  are  two  or  three  which 
seem  to  make  a  stronger  appeal  than  usual  in  these 
first  days  of  sunshine  and  fresh  air.  There  is  the 
86 


delightful  enterprise  lately  set  on  foot  for  secur- 
ing to  outworn  labouring  women,  and  especially 
mothers,  an  occasional  breath  of  sunshine  and 
sweet  air  before  they  break  down  under  the 
perpetual  strain  of  their  daily  burden.  Not  to 
speak  of  the  Children's  Country  Holidays  Fund, 
which  every  one  knows  and  delights  in,  and  the 
State  Children's  Aid,  which  has  done  so  much  to 
give  our  State  children  a  more  natural  environ- 
ment than  was  possible  in  the  old  barrack  schools, 
there  is  the  Children's  Invalid  Aid  Association, 
which  seeks  to  give  to  every  crippled  child  in 
London  a  helpful  and  understanding  friend,  and 
yearly  does  so  much  in  arranging  for  needed  rest 
and  change  in  convalescent  homes.  On  the  chil- 
dren of  the  nation  depends  the  future  of  the  race, 
and  nothing  must  be  allowed  to  rob  them  of  that 
precious  vitality  and  enjoyment  of  life  which 
make  sunshine  doubly  welcome  and  spring-time 
an  added  joy.* 

The  beauty  of  London  in  the  spring-time  is  at 
all  times  the  more  poignant  from  its  mingling  of 
the  infinite  and  the  impossible,  its  conflict  between 
the  lavish  blossoming  of  Nature  and  the  straiten- 
ing greed  of  man  ;  but,  if  the  ideal  of  civic 
responsibility  fulfil  the  promise  which  has  been 
slowly  and  gradually  unfolding  for  more  than 

*  The  addresses  to  which  helpers  and  sympathisers  may 
write  are  :  Children's  Invalid  Aid,  13  Buckingham  Street  ; 
Women's  Holiday  Fund,  47  St.  James's  Square  ;  Children's 
Country  Holidays  Fund,  1 8  Buckingham  Street,  Strand  ; 
State  Children's  Aid  Association,  61  Old  Broad  Street,  E.C. 
"  Omnia  vincit  amor  "  is  the  motto  of  the  Children's  Invalid 
Aid  Association. 

87 


Le«fres  OF 

nineteen  hundred  years  on  behalf  of  the  poor 
and  the  sorrowful,  then,  century  by  century,  the 
world  may  draw  nearer  to  that  spring-time  of  the 
Golden  Year  when  at  last  there  will  be  written 
upon  the  walls  of  our  cities:  "  Omnia  vincit 


amor." 


88 


THE  OXFORD  PAGEANT  AND 
RUSKIN  HALL 

I  AM  tempted  to  quote  from  the  prologue  to  the 
published  "Scheme  of  the  Oxford  Historical 
Pageant,''  which  begins  as  follows  : 

"It  is  no  long  time  now  to  the  unfolding  of 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  stately  scenes  that 
Oxford  has  seen  for  many  a  long  day.  The 
latter  days  of  June  and  the  earlier  days  of  July 
will  witness  such  a  wealth  of  historical  renaissance 
and  such  a  pomp  of  picturesque  ceremonial  as 
cannot  fail  to  add  new  and  wonderful  charm  even 
to  a  city  which  has  already  so  many  potent  spells 
within  the  circle  of  her  dreaming  spires,  She  has 
gazed  calm-eyed  on  many  a  gallant  scene,  this 
ancient  mother  of  men ;  she  has  watched  the 
deeds  of  kings  and  nobles,  bishops  and  warriors, 
courtiers  and  academics ;  she  has  seen  them 
carried  to  their  triumphs  and  to  their  graves. 
And  now  she  has  cast  about  in  the  dim  recesses 
of  her  memory  and  bethought  her  of  the  brave 
companies  that  she  has  viewed  of  old  ;  and  here, 
amid  the  fair  lawns  and  streams,  she  will  set  forth, 
brilliant  and  unclouded  as  when  they  first  met 
her  gaze,  the  noblest  memories  of  a  thousand 
years." 

To  those  of  us  who  are  not  among  the  fortunate 
crowd  privileged  to  be  present  at  this  pageant, 
Oxford  is  nevertheless  always,  and  through  all  the 


OF 

changing  seasons,  full  of  pageantry  and  the  glamour 
of  historic  memories.  Now,  as  at  all  times,  youth 
and  music  fill  the  ancient  chapels  with  their  ioy  ; 
eager  young  spirits,  in  whom  mind  and  body  seem 
fitly  mated,  throng  the  pavements,  hold  comrade- 
ship in  the  gardens,  weave  new  and  everlasting 
memories,  lay  quick,  persistent  fingers  upon  the 
doorways  of  knowledge,  urging  the  well-worn 
keys  in  the  old  locks,  and,  in  rare  moments  of 
intimate  talk  or  unspoken  companionship,  looking 
through  the  eyes  of  some  fellow-wayfarer  into 
that  <c  Glory  of  God "  that  makes  manhood, 
behold  for  an  instant  the  unspeakable  Wisdom, 
veiled  and  mysterious,  yet  radiating  a  power  and 
purity  beyond  all  written  words. 

Dull  must  he  be  of  heart  who  could  pass  by 
unmoved  the  continual  procession  of  unfolding 
life  and  destiny,  in  this  centre  of  immemorial 
tradition  and  unresting  development,  this  city  of 
unconscious  paradox  and  sacramental  heritage, 
where  the  very  old  and  the  very  new  are  so 
mysteriously  at  one,  and  the  outward  ritual  of 
education,  bracing  and  uplifting  though  it  be,  is 
instinct  with  an  eternal  grace  that  overleaps, 
and  creates  to  ever  new  vicissitudes,  the  ideal  it 
embodies. 

This  wide  bay-window  in  a  tutorial  house  where 
these  jottings  are  written  down,  looking  out  on 
tower  and  dome  and  spire,  with  a  foreground  of 
delicious  greenery  and  old-world  garden,  is  all  a 
part  of  the  educational  hospitality  and  ordered 
life,  that  help  to  give  poise  and  recollectedness  to 
the  lives  that  pass  through  the  gateways  of  this 
90 


OXFOT^D 

majestic  University ;  but  even  more  moving  in  its 
symbolism  was  that  rough,  bare  room,  now  yearly 
coming  into  closer  touch  with  the  University, 
where  a  day  or  two  ago  I  talked  with  some  of  the 
fifty  residents  of  Ruskin  Hall,  twenty  of  them 
miners  who  will  later  return  to  their  mining  work 
— men  who  win  intellectual  luxury  through 
physical  deprivation,  and  to  whom  "  plain  living 
and  high  thinking "  are  alike  a  passion  and  a 
necessity.  Spirited,  independent,  earnest,  some 
of  them  are  said  to  be  among  the  best  debaters  at 
the  Union,  and  on  one  and  another  of  the  faces 
it  is  impossible  to  mistake  the  intellectual  distinc- 
tion, or  that  still  higher  distinction  of  character, 
that  transcends  and  turns  to  scorn  all  those  mere 
externals  and  trapperies  of  lifewhichTeufelsdrockh 
characterised  as  "  clothes." 

Ruskin  Hall  has  wide-reaching  Imperial  possi- 
bilities, and  the  national  potentialities  of  its 
modest  beginnings  are  indicated  by  the  fact  that 
95,000  working  men,  members  of  the  Amalga- 
mated Society  of  Engineers,  have  made  four 
levies  of  one  penny  each  to  help  the  work  of  the 
college.  Of  the  amount  (^300)  produced  by  the 
first  levy,  which  was  made  in  1903,  £250  was 
devoted  to  the  fund  for  purchasing  the  present 
buildings,  and  with  the  remaining  ^50  one  of 
their  fellow-members  was  in  residence  at  the 
college  for  the  whole  of  the  year  1903.  £150  of 
the  amount  provided  by  the  second  levy  went  to 
the  fund  for  the  new  buildings,  and  with  the 
remaining  £150  three  of  their  fellow-members 
came  into  residence  for  the  whole  of  1904.  By 


s  OF 

their  third  levy  six  of  their  fellow- members  were 
at  the  college  for  the  whole  of  1905.  By  their 
fourth  levy  nine  of  their  fellow-members  are  at 
the  college  for  the  whole  of  this  year.* 

My  first  vision  of  Oxford,  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago,  was  a  dreamland  of  all  that  is 
most  perfect  in  youthful  friendship  and  human 
fellowship  ;  of  days  when  among  those  who  took 
part  in  that  charmed  circle  through  which  for  a 
few  fleeting  days  I  passed  spellbound,  were  men 
who  have  since  taken  a  distinguished  part  in  the 
service  of  their  compatriots  overseas  as  well  as 
nearer  home,  but  who  had  then  scarcely  closed  their 
University  career,  of  whom  indeed  the  impression 
given  was  that  of  thinkers  rather  than  men  of 
action,  though  doubtlesss  those  who  knew  more 
intimately  the  "  iron  will  "  and  untiring  executive 
ability  on  which  their  fellows  would  lean  in  a 
great  crisis,  may  in  one  instance  have  understood, 
better  than  a  passing  visitor,  the  force  behind  that 
simplicity  and  charm.  Others  there  were  also — 
a  brilliant  group  of  friends  and  comrades,  just 
about  to  leave  their  undergraduate  days  behind 
them  and  bid  farewell  to  Balliol  and  to  Oxford 
— who  as  scholars  and  men  of  letters  and  helpers 
of  the  poor,  have  more  than  fulfilled  the  promise 
of  those  days,  and  have  through  life  been  loyal 
to  those  old  attachments.  Among  their  seniors, 
the  men  whose  widely  differing  influences  most 
potently  converged,  in  this  particular  coterie,  to 
make  life  a  disciplined  art  from  which  nothing 

*  These   statistics    were   taken    verbatim    from    the    report 
published  in  the  year  of  the  Oxford  Pageant. 
92 


rne 

intrinsically  high  or  beautiful  should  be  absent 
— Jowett,  T.  H.  Green,  Lewis  Nettleship,  Walter 
Pater,  Arnold  Toynbee — have  all  passed  beyond 
our  mortal  vision,  though  they  have  left  their 
mark  enduringly  in  many  a  noble  life.  It  is 
possible  that  among  these  influences,  Arnold 
Toynbee's  may  have  been  deepest  of  all.  But  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  Clough's  Oxford 
pamphlet  on  Retrenchment  had  preceded  Toyn- 
bee's work  and  that  of  Leonard  Montefiore  in 
paths  that  led  straight  towards  the  movement  of 
which  Ruskin  Hall  is  one  manifestation  among 
many,  long  before  the  days  of  the  actual  road- 
mending  by  Ruskin's  followers. 

Clough  was  known  to  that  generation  chiefly 
through  his  poems,  but  in  "that  serene,  that 
earnest  air,"  which  alternated  with  a  very  pretty 
wit  and  went  hand  in  hand  with  old-world 
courtesy  and  charm,  at  many  an  undergraduate 
breakfast  table  and  supper  party,  the  good 
tradition  remained,  quickened  and  deepened 
doubtless  by  the  present  and  living  influence  of 
Arnold  Toynbee  and  the  men  and  women  who 
admired  and  loved  him. 

It  is  only  in  looking  back  that  I  realise  how 
those  days  were  making  the  future  of  to-day. 
At  the  moment  the  pageant  of  life  and  spring 
caught  the  hours  in  their  uplifting  whirl,  and, 
though  much  was  felt  and  divined,  the  outward 
eyes  were  too  much  dazzled  to  see  clearly  or 
remember  fully. 

It  was  a  wondrous  May- time  on  the  edge  of 
June,  when  the  days  were  all  one  long  succession  of 

93 


OF 

eager  conversation  and  stimulating  companionship, 
and  "the  Master" — who  was  Jowett  in  those 
days — flitted  rosy-cheeked  and  smiling  through 
those  fragrant  gardens,  all  sweet  with  syringa 
and  lilac  and  may,  where  we  spent  such  moments 
as  were  not  engrossed  with  chapels  and  breakfast 
parties  and  cloistered  wanderings  through  ever- 
new  delights  of  sunshine  and  conversation. 

To-day  the  place  is  full  of  thoughts  and 
memories  and  hopes,  and  that  glamour  of 
delicious  sunlight  which  comes  next  to  health 
and  youth  and  love  in  its  vitalising  joy.  If  I 
have  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  the  pathos  and  the 
promise  of  those  rough,  brave  lives  at  Ruskin 
Hall,  I  do  not  forget  that  the  faery  background, 
which,  year  by  year,  is  woven  by  new  generations 
of  those  who  come  here  drinking  deeply  of  all 
the  best  that  wealth  and  culture  can  give,  is  to 
those  very  lives  an  influence  and  a  romance  which, 
if  rightly  used,  may  be  a  part  of  Oxford's  gifts  to 
them.  With  a  faith  that  approaches  certainty,  I 
look  to  the  successors  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough 
and  the  group  that  followed  him,  and  to  the  sane 
generosity  of  all  great  literature,  to  achieve  in 
time,  for  those  born  into  a  straitened  heritage,  a 
less  stinted  measure  for  their  cup  of  intellectual 
joy,  their  share  in  the  beauty  and  uplifting  of  our 
common  lot.  For  these  last,  during  their  brief 
sojourn  at  Ruskin  Hall,  each  day  may  bring  its 
own  pageantry,  whether  they  be  present  at  the 
Historical  Pageant  or  not. 

Having  begun  with  the  opening  words  in  what 
may  be  called  the  prologue  to  the  book  of  the 
94 


rne  OXFOT^D 

Pageant,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  add  a  quota- 
tion from  "  Q's "  final  paragraph  in  what  may 
not  unfittingly  be  named  its  epilogue: 

"  I  say  confidently,  therefore,  that  the  Historical 
Pageant  of  1907  can  never  divulge  the  secret  of 
Oxford.  It  may  do  better,  though.  Merely  by 
being  youthful,  ardent,  gay  ...  it  may  pass 
into  the  secret  itself  and  be  of  a  piece  with  it. 

"  '  Tower  tall,  city  wall, 

A  river  running  past ; 
Youth  played  when  each  was  made, 
And  shall  them  all  outlast.' " 

That  is  a  verse  of  enchantment ;  but  finer  still, 
perhaps,  is  the  closing  stanza  of  "An  Invitation 
to  the  Pageant,"  by  Robert  Bridges  : 

"  Farewell  !  for  whether  we  be  young  or  old, 

Thou  dost  remain,  but  we  shall  pass  away ; 
Time  shall  against  himself  thy  house  uphold, 

And  build  thy  sanctuary  from  decay ; 

Children  unborn  shall  be  thy  pride  and  stay. 
May  earth  protect  thee,  and  thy  sons  be  true, 
And  God  with  heavenly  food  thy  life  renew, 

Thy  pleasure  and  thy  grace  from  day  to  day." 


95 


NOTE   ON    "SILAS   MARNER" 
FROM  THE  TEMPLE  CLASSICS 

\lncludedbere  by  the  courtesy  of  the  publishers.'] 

ASSOCIATIONS  are  "chancey"  and  unreasoning 
things.  I  seldom  find  myself  thinking  of  "  Silas 
Marner  "  without  hearing  a  line  of  Browning  with 
which  it  has  no  definite  or  obvious  relation,  a  line 
which  even  now  is  murmuring,  with  a  steady  and 
unexpected  claim  upon  attention  : 

"One  star,  its  chrysolite " 

So  haunting  and  insistent  is  this  caprice  of 
memory  that  it  seems  impossible  to  write  even 
the  briefest  "  appreciation  "  of  the  book  without 
finding  it  somewhere  upon  the  page. 

Is  it  that  in  this  long-ago  story  there  is  a  flaw- 
less and  crystalline  unity,  as  pure  and  illuminating 
as  it  is  convincing,  and  touching  the  recollection 
with  that  same  sense  of  divinity  in  everyday  things 
which  is  felt  sometimes  in  the  coming  of  the  stars 
at  evening  or  the  quivering  music  of  the  aspen- 
leaves  at  noon  ? 

Certain  it  is  that  we  find  in  this  homely  tale  a 
quaint  humour,  a  tender  religious  charm,  which 
Mrs.  Ewing  in  after-days  might  rival,  in  her  own 
very  different  and  much  more  limited  field,  but 
which  even  she  could  hardly  surpass,  and  of  which 
Thackeray  himself — to  name  no  other — might 
have  been  justly  and  modestly  proud.  There 


may  well  be  a  lifting  of  eyebrows  at  the  juxta- 
position of  Thackeray's  name  in  such  a  com- 
parison. Yet  for  true  and  intimate  seriousness  in 
the  primal  relations  of  life  the  great  satirist  had 
a  master-touch,  and,  while  he  differed  from 
George  Eliot  as  widely  as  each  differed  from  their 
contemporary,  the  great  humourist  who  gave  us 
"  Oliver  Twist/'  there  was  in  both — in  him  who 
wrote  "  Philip  "  and  "  Esmond  "  and  "  The  New- 
comes,''  no  less  than  in  the  creator  of  Dinah 
Morris — a  gentleness  of  heart,  a  generous  ampli- 
tude of  nature,  a  sanity  and  fine  restraint,  which 
made  it  impossible  to  treat  either  their  ethical  ideals, 
or  their  spirit  of  worship  and  of  faith,  with  any 
touch  of  mockery  or  of  disrespect.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  any  two  novels,  both,  like 
"  Silas  Marner  "  and  "  Vanity  Fair,"  representing 
life  in  England  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  which  differ  more  than  do  these  two 
works  of  fiction,  in  material  and  in  method  ;  but 
both  embody  powerfully  one  part  at  least  of  the 
meaning  of  that  great  seventeenth-century  allegory 
from  which  "  Vanity  Fair  "  took  its  name.  And  in 
this  story  of  peasant  life  it  is  driven  home,  with 
a  perfection  of  masterly  self-effacement,  worthy  of 
those  immortal  lines  of  George  Meredith  in  praise 
of  the  music  that  is 

"  free 
Of  taint  of  personality." 

Full  of  sunshine  and  of  neighbourly  love,  yet 
enfolding  at  the  outset  the  tragedy  of  a  soul 
which  has  lost  faith  in  God  and  man,  it  evolves, 

G  97 


OF 

unswervingly  and  inextricably,  that  far-reaching 
discipline  of  life  and  self-created  retribution, 
which  elude  the  crude  methods  and  coarse  reckon- 
ing of  the  time-server  and  the  hypocrite.  It 
faces  wrongs  and  inequalities  which  might  well 
fill  even  the  strongest  with  despair,  were  it  not 
for  that  Power,  whose  Love  and  Guidance,  full 
of  sympathy  with  ordained  renunciation,  Dolly 
Winthrop  believed  men  ought  to  "  trusten " 
through  all  the  perplexity  of  what,  to  a  gross 
and  limited  perception,  so  often  looks  like  pur- 
poseless and  inequitable  sacrifice.  Dolly's  un- 
conscious philosophy  is  wide  enough  and  deep 
enough  to  support  the  whole  burden  of  our 
earthly  mystery.  It  is  through  her  unlettered 
wisdom  that  the  weaver's  mournful  early  story 
and  ever-mellowing  happiness  of  later  life  are 
beheld,  in  that  clearly  mirrored  divine  radiance 
which  exalts  and  purifies  human  drama,  whether 
of  tragedy  or  comedy.  And  it  is  not  men  and 
women  alone  who  live  and  move  before  us  in  that 
wondrous  light.  What  is  it  that  enables  George 
Eliot  by  a  few  brief,  sober  touches  to  evoke  with 
such  extraordinary  vividness,  not  only  certain 
features  of  the  landscape,  but  the  very  spirit  that 
breathes  through  them  ?  Is  it  that,  in  her  long 
country  drives  with  her  father,  these  English  lanes 
and  hedgerows,  these  quiet  pools  and  silvery 
" runlets"  and  deep,  delicious  meadows,  gave  to 
her  some  effluence  of  their  very  being,  such  as 
enabled  her  to  write  of  them  ever  afterwards  with 
the  delicate  reserve  and  divining  magnetism  of  a 
lifelong  love  ?  It  is,  for  instance,  no  mere 


description  which  enchants  us  in  that  singularly 
beautiful  passage  in  which  she  speaks  of  "  a 
certain  awe  .  .  .  such  as  we  feel  before  some 
quiet  majesty  or  beauty  in  the  earth  or  sky 
— before  a  steady  glowing  planet,  or  a  full- 
flowered  eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over  a 
silent  pathway." 

With  no  forgetfulness  of  her  reluctant  sur- 
render of  the  ancient  creed,  it  must  yet  be  main- 
tained that  George  Eliot  was  at  once  too  rational 
and  too  religious — too  humbly  and  exaltedly 
conscientious  in  every  task  she  undertook — to 
have  anything  to  do  with  that  pseudo-romance  of 
over-strained  fancy,  against  which  our  modern 
"laughing  philosopher''  of  a  later  generation — 
serious  and  ardent  under  his  ironical  mask — is 
for  ever  running  a-tilt.  The  naturalness  and 
inevitableness  of  that  often-quoted  scene  at  the 
Rainbow,  in  which  slow  bovine  vanity  and  sheer 
ineptitude  so  nearly  lead  to  a  quarrel,  give  to  the 
villagers  there  a  fitting  niche  beside  the  classic 
Dogberry.  The  humour  of  that  scene — as  indeed 
of  the  whole  book — "  too  animate  to  need  a 
stress  " — is  as  different  as  possible  from  the  self- 
conscious  epigrammatic  sparkle  of  many  later 
imitative  scenes  among  nineteenth-century  novels 
of  agricultural  life. 

The  weaver  himself  is  a  triumph  of  delicate 
insight  on  the  part  of  the  author — a  triumph 
the  more  subtle  because  his  character  is  built  on 
such  apparently  simple  lines.  He  for  whose 
hoarded  gold  is  substituted  a  better  treasure  in 
his  golden-haired  foster-daughter,  touches  us  with 

99 


s  OF 

the  same  deep  affection  as  that  forsaken  father — 
described  by  Balzac  as   of  much  the  same  period 
of  time,  though    of  another    country — who  was 
never  a  miser  except  of  the  looks  and  words  of 
his  cruel  children,  and  to  whom,  in   his  torture- 
chamber  of  gallant  self-deception,  there  came  no 
heavenly    deliverance    except   the    deliverance  of 
death.     Was  there  in  Marner's  admirably  chosen 
name  any  half-conscious  reminiscence  of  another 
earthly  voyager  whose  way  to  "  the  dear  God  who 
loveth  us"  lay  through  a  hell  of  isolation — that 
ancient  "  Mariner  "  whose  title  only  differs  from 
his  own  by  the  interposition  of  a  single  letter  ? 
This  poor  hungry-hearted  craftsman  had  learned 
very  early  that  "  the  wedding  feast  "  at  life's  table 
is  not  for  all  in  this  world  ;  and  though,  unlike 
the  weird  sailor  in  Coleridge's  poem,  he  had  never 
willingly  injured  one  of  God's  creatures — it  was 
they  who  had  injured  him — yet  it  seemed  that  for 
long  he  must  needs  meet  the  waves  of  a  buffeting 
adversity,  with   almost  as   deep  a  solitariness  of 
soul  as  he  who  cried 

"  This  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be." 

He,  too,  is  won  back  to  fellowship  divine  and 
human  by  the  "  beauty  "  and  the  "  happiness  "  of 
one  of  the  "happy  living  things  "  about  his  path, 
though  to  him — as  well  he  deserved — came  a 
messenger  lovelier  and  more  loving  than  the  little 
water-snakes  of  whom  the  " Ancient  Mariner" 

100 


told  "the  Wedding  Guest"  that  he  "blessed 
them  unaware." 

There  came  a  day  when  he  too,  he,  Silas  Marner, 
who  had  seemed  shut  out  from  that  conscious 
presence  of  Love  which  of  itself  is  heaven,  as  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  a  little  laughing  child, 
could  feel  vaguely  and  inarticulately  something  of 
what  Swinburne's  exquisitely  simple  lines  have 
made  articulate  for  all  men  everywhere  concerning 
children : 

"Earth's  creeds  may  be  seventy  times  seven 

And  blood  have  defiled  each  creed  : 
If  of  such  be  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
It  must  be  heaven  indeed." 

But  with  what  an  ideal  realism — in  the  true,  not 
the  modern  and  debased,  use  of  the  word — does 
the  incessant  interaction  of  character  and  circum- 
stance, with  its  gradual  unforeseen  development 
and  self-recording  Nemesis,  unfold  itself!  As 
one  vindication  of  the  sense  in  which  the  word 
"realism"  has  just  been  used,  take,  for  example, 
the  inimitable  drawing  of  Mr.  Macey,  always  such 
an  entirely  credible  human  creature,  even  when 
he  contrives  to  interpolate  in  his  well-intended  con- 
dolences with  Marner  the  gratifying  information 
that  "  you  were  allays  a  staring  white-faced  creatur, 
partly  like  a  bald-faced  calf!  " 

Or  consider  the  character  of  Nancy  Lammeter. 
Her  portrait  is  touched  in  with  a  precision,  a  dainty 
care  and  individuality  of  colouring,  that  impress 
themselves  vividly  on  the  memory.  Her  singularly 
limited  ideal  would  in  any  less  beautiful  soul  have 

101 


OF 

been  written  down  as  narrowness.  Her  rectitude  of 
purpose,  in  details  of  conduct  in  which  she  was  as 
determined  as  she  was  mistaken,  would  in  a  smaller 
nature  have  been  hated  as  obstinacy.  But,  although 
George  Eliot  does  not  conceal  these  characteristics, 
Nancy's  exquisite  sincerity  of  intention,  "  clear 
as  the  flower-born  dew,"  her  self-forgetting 
steadfastness  of  affection,  have  been  pourtrayed 
also,  with  such  a  faultless  reality  as  to  make 
her  primness  a  part  of  her  fascination,  and  her 
"  set  ways "  as  restful  as  the  conventionalised 
blossom- line  of  some  perfect  bit  of  decorative  art. 
Rarely  does  George  Eliot  permit  herself,  in  rela- 
tion to  any  of  her  dramatis  -personce,  the  use  of 
that  hard-worked  and  sometimes  meaningless 
adjective  "sweet";  but  to  Nancy's  name  she 
does  prefix  it ;  and,  indeed,  this  daughter  of  a 
farming  squire  calls  up  to  the  reader  the  image 
of  those  starry  pheasant-eyed  flowers,  sheeny  in 
their  snow-white,  stainless  exactitude,  and  fragrant 
with  a  message  beyond  that  of  earth,  to  which 
the  Lancashire  folk  give  Nancy  Lammeter's 
"  christen  "  name.  Of  her,  as  of  Mrs.  GaskelPs 
last  and  most  perfect  achievement,  Molly  Gibson, 
we  think,  as  among  the  people  we  have  known, 
rather  than  those  of  whom  we  have  merely  read. 

But  even  Nancy,  whose  life  is  nobly  in  accord 
with  her  belief  that  nothing  in  this  world  is 
"  worth  doing  wrong  for,"  does  not  touch  a 
deeper  or  a  higher  note  than  Dolly  Winthrop. 
And  Dolly's  is  in  some  ways  a  larger  mind, 
notwithstanding  she  was  "no  scholard,"  and  a 
nature  touched  with  that  best  kind  of  sainthood 
102 


SIL^IS 

which  lies,  not  in  the  negative  virtues — virtues 
which  in  such  a  life  spring  up  of  themselves — but 
in  the  cleansing  drudgery  of  ever-repeated  and 
ever-chosen  toil,  for  the  world's  humblest,  coarsest 
needs.  Dolly  lives  so  entirely  in  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  others,  that  to  her  the  whole  com- 
munity is  a  family  needing  her  maternal  care. 
Was  there  ever,  even  in  Mrs.  Poyser  herself,  a 
more  delightful  creation  than  this  excellent  woman, 
who,  as  mild  and  patient  as  she  was  hard-working, 
viewed  "the  stronger  sex  in  the  light  of  animals 
whom  it  had  pleased  Heaven  to  make  naturally 
troublesome,  like  bulls  and  turkey-cocks  "  ?  It  is 
like  feeling  the  sunshine  only  to  thiflk  of  her ; 
"good-looking,  fresh-complexioned,"  and  "never 
whimpering,"  and,  when  she  was  not  tending  her 
jovial  husband,  or  "that  apple-cheeked  youngster  of 
seven,  with  a  clean-starched  frill  that  looked  like 
a  plate  for  the  apples,"  never  so  happy  as  when 
she  stood  by  a  sick-bed,  or  gave  kindly  help  in  a 
house  of  mourning  ! 

Besides,  it  is  Dolly,  with  her  practical  faith  and 
pagan  phrasing,  who  brings  Marner  the  first  spoken 
word  of  comfort  from  what  she  calls  "  the  right 
quarter,"  and  reminds  us  that  "if  we'n  done  our 
part  it  isn't  to  be  believed  as  Them  as  are  above 
us'll  be  worse  nor  we  are,  and  come  short  o' 
Their'n."  More  characteristic  still  is  that  later 
saying  of  hers :  "  It's  the  will  o'  Them  above  as 
a  many  things  should  be  dark  to  us ;  but  there's 
some  things  as  I've  never  felt  i'  the  dark  about, 
and  they're  mostly  what  comes  i'  the  day's  work." 
Perhaps  we  love  her  most  for  her  delicate  tact  and 

103 


OF 

magnanimity  in  that  surpassing  scene  in  which 
Silas,  "  leaning  forward  to  look  at  Baby  with  some 
jealousy,  as  she  was  resting  her  head  backward 
against  Dolly's  arm,  and  eyeing  him  contentedly 
from  a  distance "-  —made  his  little  confession  of 
jealousy — "But  I  want  to  do  things  for  it  myself, 
else  it  may  get  fond  o'  somebody  else,  and  not 
fond  o'  me." 

In  this,  as  in  all  her  novels,  it  is  in  her  wonderful 
mother-hearted  touches  in  relation  to  the  children 
that  George  Eliot's  inspiration  is  most  striking  of 
all.  Eppie,  when  she  blossoms  into  womanhood, 
is  as  real  and  as  "  taking  "  as  a  briar-rose,  one  of 
those  "  dillicate-made  "  flowers,  with  their  ineffable 
perfume,  as  of  sweetness  wafted  from  far  away, 
which,  with  their  heart-shaped  petals,  and  colour- 
ing of  sunset  cloudlets,  grow  by  thousands  in  the 
dusty  lanes,  to  transfigure  with  their  unconscious 
symbolism — at  once  ethereal  and  earthly — the 
possibilities  of  man's  homeliest  lot.  But  it  is  in 
the  pictures  of  Eppie's  childhood  that  the  novelist 
attains  her  highest  distinction.  What  could  be 
more  absolutely  perfect  in  irresistible  humour 
than  the  story  of  the  "  toal-hole "  discipline, 
with  its  atmosphere  of  tender  and  growing  love 
between  the  lonely  old  man  and  the  little  way- 
ward, winsome  child.  Other  writers  have  given 
us  children  to  love  and  to  remember,  in  whom 
there  is  often  an  element  of  the  subtle  or  the 
exceptional,  but  I  venture  to  think  that  the  main 
attraction  of  George  Eliot's  children — and  herein 
lies  her  greatness — is  in  a  kind  of  divine  com- 
monplaceness,  as  of  daisies  and  buttercups.  And 
104 


in  the  music  that  their  voices  make — such  music 
as  brings  comfort  and  strength  to  many  lonely 
hearts — there  is  not  one  false  or  self-conscious 
note.  To  draw  such  children  as  that  is  only 
possible  to  the  highest  genius  of  all.  And  they  are, 
as  they  should  be,  just  taken  for  granted,  as  are 
all  the  divinest  things  in  life — never  insisted  upon, 
never  "  shown  off,"  or  dragged  in.  "  In  old  days," 
as  the  author  of  "  Silas  Marner,"  reminds  us,  "  there 
were  angels  who  came  and  took  men  by  the  hand 
and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of  destruction. 
We  see  no  white-winged  angels  now.  But  yet 
men  are  led  away  from  threatening  destruction  : 
a  hand  is  put  into  theirs,  which  leads  them  forth 
gently  towards  a  calm  and  bright  land,  so  that 
they  look  no  more  backward ;  and  the  hand  may 
be  a  little  child's." 


105 


THE  PROFFERED  SHIPS 

WHY  do  they  thrill  us — those  ships  that  we  dream 

about, 

Ships  they  will  build  us,  far  over  the  sea, 
Ships  that   all  fill  us  with  welcomes  that  gleam 

about 

Timber  and  shrouding  with  noble  elation, 
Ships  from  each  stalwart  self-governing  nation 
Born  of  our  Mother  and  born  to  be  free  ? — 

See  them  come  floating,  majestic  and  glorious, 
Dreams    that    for    beauty  and  strength  are 

delight — 

Comrades  devoting  young  sinews  victorious, 
Sister  to  sister  and  brother  to  brother, 
One  in  the  love  of  the  Homeland,  the  Mother, 
One  in  the  justice  immortal  in  might  !— 

Not  for  the  passion  of  warfare  and  vanity, 

But  for  the  Kinship  that  cannot  forget — 
Love  that  can  fashion  the  bonds  of  humanity 
Into  the  grace  of  an  armour  celestial, 
Love  that  uplifts  out  of  all  that  is  bestial, 
Love,  whereon  light,  tho'  it  rise,  cannot 
set! — 

Brothers,  the  Homeland  is  proud  at  the  thought 

of  you, 

Hearts  overflow  to  your  generous  words ; 
106 


SHITS 

Heaven  is  the  dome  to  the  temple  that's  wrought 

of  you, 
Arching  the  hearth  that,  in  world-wide  embrace 

of  you, 
Glows  with  the  courage  and  champion  grace  of 

you  ! 

Send  us  your  ships  then — bright  messenger 
birds ! 

Oh,  may  the  God  of  our  fathers  bestow  on  us 

Disciplined  peace,  without  panic  or  strife  ! 
But,  should  the  rod  of  His  chastisement  throw 

on  us 

Duties  of  war  on  behalf  of  the  trampled, 
May  we,  with  oneness  and  strength  unexampled, 
Fight  to  the  death  for  the  Master  of  Life  ! 

Dear  far-off  lands,  our  own  ships  will  respond  to 

you ; 

We  will  be  loyal  and  true  to  our  trust — 
Pledge  we  our  bond  thro'  this  life  and  beyond  to 

you, 

Forge  we  our  way  thro'  a  tempest's  commotion, 
Ride  we  at  ease  on  a  billowless  ocean, 
Stand  to  attention,  or  crimson  the  dust  ! 


107 


IN  MID-MAY'S  GLORY 

SUMMER  in  May  !  The  buttercups  are  here  and 
the  sorrels  have  begun  to  redden.  The  fragile 
stellarias  along  the  lane's  edge  are  beginning  to 
pass  away,  and  the  loveliest  of  the  pale  blue  speed- 
wells are  laughing  through  the  dewy  grass  in 
many  a  meadow  as  the  sun  goes  down.  The 
white  Montana  with  a  grace  of  the  angels  is 
clambering  over  porches  and  sunny  walls,  and  the 
broom — yellow  and  white  and  primrose-coloured 
— overlooking  dazzling  beds  of  pansies,  neighbours 
the  sweet  golden  azaleas,  in  a  garden  where  one 
who  loves  Switzerland  and  Italy  has  now  deep 
blue  gentians  in  full  bloom.  Hawthorns  are  out, 
the  Spanish  chestnuts  are  in  full  leaf,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  ribbongrass  and  forget-me-nots  in  the 
cottage  borders  are  in  their  glory.  The  buds  of 
pinks  and  carnations  are  still  closed,  but  white 
butterflies  are  sporting  with  one  another  and  with 
the  flowers,  and  yesterday  a  queen-bee  sailed  into 
my  front  sitting-room — almost  as  unexpected  an 
apparition  as  the  big  tropical-looking  moth,  with 
gorgeous  torn  wings,  that  I  once  found  lying  dead 
outside  one  cottage  porch  not  far  away,  or  the 
little  grass-adder,  a  pretty  creature,  28  inches 
long,  that  last  year  glided  past  our  kitchen  door, 
charming  a  little  robin  as  it  went,  and  met  its 
death  at  the  hand  of  a  neighbour  before  we  learned 
how  harmless  it  was.  Thus  do  I  add  to  my 
country  experiences.  Little  fluffy  rabbits  I  have 
108 


seen  in  many  a  bygone  year,  scuttling  across  our 
woodland  paths,  but  not  till  yesterday  had  I 
watched  the  swift,  graceful  movements  of  a  tiny 
field-mouse,  running  swift  as  a  lizard  through  the 
undergrowth.  Or  was  it  some  other  creature 
whose  little  lithe  body  I  mistook  for  his  ?  Wis- 
taria in  lavish  blossoming  has  succeeded  red  and 
pink  japonica,  and  the  pungent  smell  of  the  ribes 
is  already  over,  though  there  is  a  little  plant  akin 
to  the  borage,  now  full  of  deep  blue  jewel-like 
blossoms,  in  careful  gardens.  The  swallows  are 
flying  low,  as  if  they  expected  yet  more  rain  ;  but 
the  finches  are  full  of  music,  and  the  nightingales 
most  melodious.  I  have  not  yet  happened  to 
hear  the  call  of  the  owls,  though  the  cuckoo  seems 
to  mark  the  refrain  of  the  whole  blossoming 
world,  that  is  full  of  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  and  of 
the  beautiful  pheasant-eyed  narcissus.  Even  the 
lilies-of-the-valley  are  in  bloom,  and  the  yellow 
banksia.  What  a  wondrous  county  this  is,  and 
how  deeply  it  was  beloved  by  its  own  great  poet 
and  novelist  who  died  here  twelve  months  ago  ! 

It  is  just  a  year  since  the  ashes  of  George 
Meredith  were  laid  to  rest,  the  flames  having 
burned  to  utmost  purity  the  beautiful,  outworn 
garment  he  had  laid  aside.  Do  not  his  words 
breathe  along  the  meadow  and  the  woodland  in 
the  sweet  south  wind  of  our  enchanting  Surrey 
wilds  ? 

"  And  song  of  England's  rush  of  flowers 
Is  this  full  breeze  with  mellow  stops, 
That  spins  the  lark  for  shine,  for  showers ; 

109 


s  OF  Titos e 

He  drinks  his  hurried  flight,  and  drops. 
The  stir  in  memory  seem  these  things, 
Which  out  of  moisten'd  turf  and  clay, 
Astrain  for  light  push  patient  rings, 
Or  leap  to  find  the  waterway. 

So  hard  was  earth  an  eyewink  back  ; 
But  now  the  common  life  has  come, 
The  blotting  cloud  a  dappled  pack, 
The  grasses  one  vast  underhum. 

A  burly  joy  each  creature  swells 
With  sound  of  its  own  hungry  quest : 
Earth  has  to  fill  her  empty  wells, 
And  speed  the  service  of  the  nest.'* 


no 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "SAYINGS 
FROM  THE  SAINTS" 

[Reprinted  here  by  the  kind  permission  of  the  publisher, 
Mr.  Eveleigh  Nash.'} 

THIS  little  book  is  dedicated  to  one  who  gave, 
and  doubtless  made  doubly  sacred  by  thoughts 
that  were  prayers,  a  rosary  made  of  shells  from  the 
Bay  of  Salamis,  which  from  Athens  reached  a  shy 
child  of  nine  some  forty-six  years  ago,  in  memory 
of  a  meeting  that  was  also  a  parting.  It  asks  no 
higher  privilege  than  to  be  just  such  a  gift  from 
heart  to  heart,  a  rosary  in  which  the  beads  are  of 
God's  making,  gathered  and  polished  by  other 
hands  than  those  that  have  sought  to  string 
them  on  the  enduring,  yet  invisible,  thread  of 
human  friendship  and  love.  Friendship  and  love 
whereof  the  Saints  in  this  volume  have  written  as 
the  gift  and  the  revelation  of  Him  to  whom  with 
one  accord  they  cry:  "  Thou  hast  made  us  for 
Thyself,  and  our  hearts  are  restless  till  they  rest 
in  Thee." 

From  hand  to  hand  and  from  heart  to  heart, 
as  a  parting  gift,  a  salutation  on  birthdays  and 
festivals,  it  asks  a  place  in  life  to  uplift  and  help 
in  those  moments  of  meditation  that  come  some- 
times unforeseen  as  well  as  of  set  purpose,  and 
offers  up  a  many-voiced  harmony  of  that  praise 
which  all  the  saints  utter,  "not  only  with  their 
lips,  but  with  their  lives/'  a  harmony  attuned 
to  one  triumphant  note,  through  all  diversity, 

ill 


OF 

in  its    catholicity    of  Truth    and    Wisdom    and 
Love. 

The  stringing  of  beads  is  the  humblest  of  offices 
in  the  making  of  a  beautiful  thing,  yet  only  under 
orders  could  so  unscholarly  a  hand  have  been 
dipped  into  the  treasury  of  the  ages  to  find  what 
was  needed  for  the  fashioning  of  this  memorial, 
and  it  is  well  that  he  who  set  me  this  lowly  but 
illuminating  task  restricted  me  to  the  sayings  of 
saints  within  the  canon,  for  otherwise,  with  freedom 
to  quote  from  the  words  of  all  good  men  and 
women,  the  choice  would  have  been  too  vast,  and 
I  might  have  been  still  groping  helplessly  among 
half-dug  mines.  Nevertheless,  the  magnificent  and 
practical  testimony,  of  those  whose  sayings  are 
transcribed  in  this  book,  does  but  gain  in  weight 
and  in  cogency  from  the  sense  of  that  surrounding 
multitude  of  uncanonised  saints  whose  thoughts 
are  seldom  recorded,  except  in  obscure  and  un- 
selfish deeds,  and  in  that  Book  of  Life  where  the 
last  shall  be  first — men  and  women  who  for  the 
sake  of  others  have  drudged  heroically  and  suffered 
silently  and  rejoiced  evermore,  and  whose  messages, 
though  scarcely  heard  in  the  fields  of  literature,  are 
vocal  in  the  invisible  choir. 

At  the  suggestion  of  the  same  wise  taskmaster,  I 
have  so  intermingled  the  jewels  on  my  rosary  that 
the  greatest  and  clearest  are  therein  supported  by 
the  lesser  gems  ;  and  the  sayings  of  no  saint,  how- 
ever great,  can  be  found  on  many  continuous  pages 
unsurrounded  by  those  of  others.  Here  and  there 
some  glorious  passage  that  cannot  be  broken  is 
left  supreme  and  uninterrupted.  But  wherever  it 
112 


THE 

is  possible,  the  wisdom  of  one  is  complemented  or 
echoed  by  another  and  yet  another,  leading  as  by 
a  natural  transition  to  a  new  aspect  of  the  same 
truth,  or  to  some  apparently  opposite  view  which 
is  its  safeguard  or  its  culmination,  in  the  mighty 
paradox  of  that  wider  truth  which  includes  both. 

If  it  be  objected  that  such  interwoven  fragments 
can  never  make  a  book  properly  so  called,  I  reply 
that  it  matters  little  what  it  is  named,  whether 
day-book  or  rosary  or  sacred  patchwork,  so  long 
as  it  serve  its  purpose  for  wholesome  invigoration 
in  daily  care  and  toil,  holy  comfort  and  courage 
in  hours  of  darkness,  a  burnishing  of  the  soul's 
armour  for  mortal  combat,  and  an  assurance  of 
that  communion  of  spirit  with  spirit  which  is 
found  in  Him  who  is  the  All-embracing  and  the 
Eternal. 

With  regard  to  the  limitations  laid  upon  me,  I 
have  been  rigidly  obedient  ;  even  the  writer  of  the 
"  Imitation  ''  has  not  been  included,  nor  the  recluse 
of  Norwich,  since  neither  of  them  appears  in  the 
Calendar.  Herein  also  has  been  gain,  for  we  all 
love  Thomas  a  Kempis  already ;  and  had  I  been 
allowed  to  quote  at  will  from  the  "  Imitation," 
the  austerity  of  an  ideal  wholly  personal  and  con- 
templative might  have  dimmed  the  almost  dazzling 
testimony  of  the  canonised  saints,  whose  many- 
sided  activity  and  inspired  common  sense  are  only 
equalled  by  the  heights  of  their  mystic  communion 
and  the  profundity  and  universality  of  their  love. 
While  they  recognised,  as  the  Catholic  Church 
has  always  recognised,  those  ever-present  gifts  of 
healing  and  of  miracle  which  have  been  neglected, 

H  113 


OF 

forgotten,  disused,  their  essential  ideal  is  not  the 
negation  of  emotion,  any  more  than  the  "  pure 
light  unbroken  by  the  prism  "  is  devoid  of  those 
qualities  which,  when  it  meets  the  refracting  edges 
of  grief  and  discipline  and  renunciation,  break 
forth  in  all  the  glories  of  the  prismatic  colours 
from  seraphic  red  to  deep  celestial  blue.  Less 
familiar,  and  therefore  more  stimulating  to  de- 
votional exercise  than  even  many  of  the  tender  and 
love-inspiring  passages  of  the  "  Imitation,"  is 
that  splendid  saying  of  St.  Teresa,  that  it  mattered 
comparatively  little  whether  her  soul  was  carried 
to  hell  or  to  heaven,  since,  wherever  she  went,  the 
Supreme  Good  was  present ;  and  the  assurance 
of  St.  Francis  that  "all  we  perceive  materially  in 
this  world  of  the  Most  High  is  the  Body  and 
Blood  of  our  Divine  Lord,  and  the  mysterious 
words  by  which  we  were  created  and  redeemed." 

Amid  the  agony  of  a  creation  that  "  groaneth 
and  travaileth  "  toward  diviner  perfection,  where 
the  Faith  is  still  blasphemed  by  the  horrors  per- 
petrated in  its  most  holy  name,  there  are  problems 
which  embrace  much  that  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
our  finite  Reason,  even  though  we  are  taught  to 
use  its  light  as  the  light  of  God.  Yet  even  now 
we  learn,  through  what  is  most  enduring  in  human 
affection  and  human  loyalty,  that  the  transitory  is 
but  a  mode  of  the  Eternal,  and  the  words  education 
and  redemption,  which  are  too  often  used  chiefly 
as  controversial  weapons,  are  symbols  of  infinite 
suggestiveness  and  unutterable  consolation. 

The  " Sayings"  here  recorded  are  untainted  by 
a  danger  which  lurks  in  the  latest  revival  of  that 
114 


rne 

ancient  mystical  heresy  which  is  to  some  of  us  the 
more  ensnaring  from  the  intermingling  of  vital 
truth  whereby  it  lives.  Possibly  that  heresy  is 
never  a  more  dividing  influence  in  its  self-centred 
quietism  than  when,  asserting  that  we  are  the 
Universe,  and  essentially  the  God  to  whom  we 
pray,  it  reckons  up  righteousness  by  success  and 
virtue  by  freedom  from  pain. 

The  saints  here  quoted,  though  on  many  subjects 
they  use  the  very  language  and  share  the  very 
thoughts  of  the  modern  mystics,  to  a  degree  that  is 
almost  startling,  yet  on  this  question  divide  from 
them  in  a  manner  equally  striking.  St.  Teresa, 
St.  Augustine,  and  St.  Francis,  and  all  their  blessed 
company,  never  said  "we  do  not  suffer";  but, 
while  they  valued  joy  and  health  as  divine  gifts,  they 
welcomed,  as  the  highest  privilege,  their  share  in  the 
wounding  and  the  battle,  whereby  Love  sacrifices 
what  is  dearest  for  the  uplifting  of  others,  even 
though  they  accounted  all  the  anguish  as  nothing  in 
the  presence  of  the  Glory  that  is  Eternal,  that  Glory 
which  is  but  another  name  for  unconquerableTruth, 
invincible  Beauty,  undying  Love — the  Divine  Love 
that  for  them  is  the  First  and  Last  of  all  things, 
round  about  whose  throne  the  rainbow  is  unbroken. 
And  because  the  great  Reality  is  beyond  the  power 
of  mortal  utterance,  their  words  are  less  arrogant 
than  the  simpler  and  shallower  assertions  of  those 
modern  opinions  which  think  to  have  solved  all 
mysteries  by  maintaining  what  is,  after  all,  but  a 
small  part  of  the  complexities  of  truth. 

Longing  passionately  not  only  for  a  united  Chris- 
tendom, but  for  the  day  when  the  East  and  the  West 


s  OF  7>%ose 

shall  join  hands  in  the  one  worship  to  which  both 
through  the  centuries  have  brought  such  ineffable 
foreshadowings,  there  is  much  here  to  remind  us, 
amid  those  transcendental  treasures  of  the  Orient 
which  have  of  late  been  thrown  open  to  the  world, 
that  while  out  of  the  East  came  all  the  mystic 
lore  of  India,  out  of  the  East  also  came  u  the 
deathless  legacy  of  Isaiah  and  the  practical  mys- 
ticism of  that  apostle  who  wrote  of  the  Divine 
One  that  '  in  Him  we  live  and  move  and  have 
our  being.' ' 


116 


THE  LADY  OI<   THK   LAKK 

i;    Lady  of  tli<  ''was  first  published  in 

1810,  and  in   his  introduction    to    the   edition    of 
1830 — twenty  years  later — Scott  tells  us  how  Ci 

i,  the  action  of  which  lay  among  scenes  so 
beautiful  and  so  deeply  imprinted  on  col- 

lections, was  a  labour  of  love,  and  it  was  no  less 

II  the  manners  and  incident/. 
duced.  The  frequent  custom  of  James  IV.,  and 
particularly  of  James  V.,  to  walk  through  their 
kingdom  in  disguise,  afforded "  him,  he  adds, 
"the  hint  of  an  incident,  which  never  fails  to  be 
interesting  if  managed  with  the  slightest  address 
or  dexterity."  Every  autumn  for  many  years 
Scott  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  some  time  in 
that  "romantic  country  "  where  the  plot  urif< 
itself — country  of  which  he  had  read  and  seen 
much,  but  heard  traditionally  even  more — and, 
indeed,  it  is  not  difficult  to  divine  that  this  stirring 
and  beautiful  romance  was  interwoven  with  the 
very  texture  of  his  earlier  life.  "  Oddly  enough," 
as  he  himself  remarked,  "it  was  in  all  the  dignity 
of  danger,  with  a  front  and  rear  guard,  and  loaded 
arms,'7  that  he  first  entered  the  enchant  itry 

that  surrounds  Loch  Katrine  when,  as  a  very 
young  man,  "  a  writer's  apprentice "  —or,  as  we 
should  phrase  it  this  side  the  Korder,  a  solid: 
clerk — he  was  entrusted  with  the  execution  of  a 
legal  instrument  against  certain  Maclarens,  re- 
fractory tenants  of  Stuart  of  AJ  I  fe  was 

117 


OF 

accompained  by  a  sergeant  and  six  men  from  a 
Highland  regiment  near  Stirling,  "  with  directions 
to  see  that  the  messenger  discharged  his  duty 
fully,  and  that  the  gallant  sergeant  did  not  exceed 
his  part  by  committing  violence  or  plunder."  The 
sergeant,  it  seems,  had  known  Rob  Roy  and  was 
full  of  stories  about  him,  but,  as  it  turned  out, 
the  Maclarens,  against  whom  the  expedition  was 
directed,  had  already  fled,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  any  way  out  of  tune  with  the  making  of 
pleasant  memories.  Lockhart  seems  to  think  it 
probable  that  this  warlike  excursion  was  not  only 
Scott's  first  entrance  to  the  Loch  Katrine  country, 
but  was  also  a  part  of  his  first  visit  to  the  veteran 
Invernayhle  himself,  a  friend  to  whom  he  owed 
endless  stories  of  Highland  adventure — a  notable 
visit,  for  it  was  then,  as  a  boy  of  fifteen,  in  quite 
the  early  days  of  his  legal  apprenticeship,  that  he 
first  beheld  the  Vale  of  Perth,  with  the  deep  and 
eager  delight  in  its  loveliness  which  he  has  himself 
described.  "I  recollect,"  he  says,  " pulling  up 
the  reins,  without  meaning  to  do  so,  and  gazing 
on  the  scene  before  me  as  if  I  had  been  afraid 
it  would  shift,  like  those  in  a  theatre,  before  I 
could  distinctly  observe  its  different  parts,  or  con- 
vince myself  that  what  I  saw  was  real.  Since  that 
hour,  the  recollection  of  that  inimitable  landscape 
has  possessed  the  strongest  influence  over  my 
mind,  and  retained  its  place  as  a  memorable  thing, 
while  much  that  was  influential  on  my  own  for- 
tunes has  fled  from  my  recollection." 

It  was  many  a  long  year  afterwards  that,  when 
writing  uThe  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  he  went  into 
118 


rne  LAT>T  OF  me 

Perthshire  to  verify  the  possibility  of  King  James's 
ride  from  the  banks  of  Loch  Vennachar  to  Stirling 
Castle  within  the  time  allowed  for  it  in  the  poem, 
and,  to  his  great  delight,  satisfied  himself  that  it 
could  be  done.  He  was  the  more  anxious  and 
careful  over  every  such  detail  because,  as  he  him- 
self tells  us,  Miss  Rutherford,  the  aunt  who  was 
so  near  his  own  age  as  to  have  grown  up  with 
him  in  comradelike  and  cousinly  friendship,  had 
warned  him  against  risking  a  fall  by  issuing  yet 
another  romance  in  verse  after  the  immense 
popularity  and  success  of  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel  "  and  "  Marmion."  "  You  stand  high,'1 
she  had  said ;  "  do  not  rashly  attempt  to  climb 
higher  ...  a  favourite  will  not  be  allowed  even 
to  stumble  with  impunity."  To  which  he  replied 
in  the  words  of  Montrose 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  win  or  lose  it  all." 

In  his  own  introduction  to  the  edition  of  1830 
he  follows  this  up  with  his  charming  story  of  the 
friend,  bred  up  a  farmer,  to  whom,  knowing  his 
"  powerful  understanding,  natural  good  taste,  and 
warm  poetical  feeling,"  he  read,  loner  before 
publication,  the  first  canto  of  "The  Lady  of  the 
Lake."  This  good  fellow,  "  a  passionate  admirer 
of  field  sports,"  followed  the  account  of  the  stag- 
hunt  with  rapt  attention  till  it  reached  the  point 
at  which  the  dogs  plunged  into  the  lake  to  follow 
their  master,  who  had  stepped  into  the  shallop 

119 


OF 

with  Ellen  Douglas,  when  he  started  up,  struck 
the  table,  and  declared  indignantly  that  "  the 
dogs  must  have  been  totally  ruined  by  being 
permitted  to  take  the  water  after  such  a  severe 
chase."  Scott  was  naturally  delighted  to  find 
that  so  good  a  sportsman  should  thus  reassure 
him  by  the  complete  illusionment.  with  which  he 
had  followed  the  whole  incident  as  though  it  had 
actually  happened.  The  author  was,  however, 
somewhat  disconcerted  by  the  quickness  with 
which  the  same  friend  discovered  the  main  secret 
of  the  romance  directly  Fitzjames  wound  his 
horn,  helped  probably  by  an  old  ballad  in  which 
it  is  said  of  that  personage,  whose  identity  he 
divined  so  readily: 

"  He  took  a  bugle  from  his  side, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  shrill, 

And  four-and-twenty  belted  knights 

Came  skipping  owre  the  hill.'* 

"  This  discovery,"  remarks  Scott,  "  as  Mr.  Pepys 
says  of  the  rent  in  his  camlet  cloak,  was  but  a 
trifle,  yet  it  troubled  me ;  and  I  was  at  a  good 
deal  of  pains  to  efface  any  marks  by  which  I 
thought  my  secret  could  be  traced  before  the 
conclusion,  when  I  relied  on  it  with  the  same 
hope  of  producing  effect  with  which  the  Irish 
postboy  is  said  to  reserve  a  '  trot  for  the  avenues.' ' 
To  the  admirable  little  biography  of  Scott  by 
Mr.  Adamb  nothing  need  here  be  added,  except 
a  few  touches  bearing  directly  or  indirectly  on 
"  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  " — touches  which  can 
but  add  warmth  and  colour  to  our  realisation  of 
1 20 


rne  LAT*T  OF  rne 

the  brave,  tender,  vivid  personality  of  one  who 
was  man  first  and  author  afterwards,  yet  in  whom 
man  and  author  were  never  at  variance,  the  life 
he  lived,  the  aims  he  followed,  being  wholly  in 
accord  with  the  high-hearted  ideals  of  his  romances 
and  novels.  Born  on  August  15,  1771,  to  the 
time  of  his  death  on  September  21,  1832,  his  life 
overflowed  with  noble  energies  and  achievements 
and  untiring  human  fellowship.  Every  one  knows 
the  main  events  of  his  career;  his  early  years  in 
the  office  of  his  father,  a  writer  to  the  Signet,  his 
eager  devotion  to  literature,  his  long  hours  of 
creative  toil  in  the  early  morning  before  the  tasks 
of  the  lawyer's  office  could  claim  him,  his  marriage 
in  December  1797,  following  closely  on  the 
mastery  of  all  selfish  elements  of  pain  in  an  early 
romance  which  left  a  deep  mark  upon  his  life,  his 
growing  fame,  his  entanglement  in  the  affairs  of 
the  Ballantyne  publishing  house,  his  heroic  and 
persistent  literary  labours  in  the  determination  to 
retrieve  his  bankruptcy.  Permanently  lamed  as 
the  result  of  a  fever  when  a  mere  baby,  one  of 
his  earliest  recollections  was  of  what  happened  to 
him  in  his  grandfather's  house  at  Sandy  Knowe, 
where,  some  one  having  suggested  that  every  time 
a  sheep  was  killed  the  lame  baby  should  be  swathed 
in  the  warm  sheepskin,  he  well  remembered  lying 
on  the  floor  in  this  odd  garment  while  his  white- 
haired  grandfather  tried  to  coax  him  to  crawl, 
and  an  old  kinsman  who  had  been  colonel  of  the 
Greys — a  picturesque  figure  in  cocked  hat,  em- 
broidered scarlet  waistcoat,  light-coloured  coat,  and 
milk-white  locks  tied  in  military  fashion — knelt  on 

121 


LEAVES  OF 

the  floor  beside  him,  dragging  his  watch,  trying 
to  induce  the  child  to  creep  after  it.  His  sur- 
roundings, like  his  ancestry,  were  quite  appro- 
priate to  the  makings  of  a  Border  minstrel  of 
high  degree.  The  influences  went  much  deeper 
than  pictured  memories  of  grey-haired  military 
kinsmen.  Mr.  Adams  reminds  us  that  he  was 
descended  from  "  Auld  Watt  of  Harden  "  and  his 
wife  "  the  Flower  of  Yarrow,"  and  we  may  add 
that,  distant  kinsmen  of  his  own  having  fallen  at 
Culloden,  his  Jacobite  feeling  was  deepened  by 
the  stories  told  in  his  childish  hearing  of  the  cruel 
executions  at  Carlisle  which  followed. 

From  his  grandmother,  as  well  as  from  the  old 
books  that  lay  in  the  window-seat  at  Sandy  Knowe, 
he  learned  many  a  stirring  tale  of  Scottish 
brigandry  and  adventure,  while  at  the  same  time 
his  own  outdoor  life,  in  company  with  flowers 
and  birds  and  beasts,  doubtless  strengthened  his 
sense  of  kinship  with  those  gentle,  though  not 
human,  brothers  and  sisters  ;  for  he  tells  us  he 
"  was  usually  carried  out  and  laid  down  beside 
the  old  shepherd,  among  the  crags  and  rocks 
round  which  he  fed  his  sheep,"  and,  in  spite  of 
his  shrunk  and  contracted  limb,  this  fine  ''open- 
air  treatment "  made  of  him  a  healthy,  high- 
spirited,  and,  apart  from  his  lameness,  even  a 
"sturdy  child." 

No  reader  of  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  will  be 
surprised  to  find  that  his  love  of  horses  was 
hereditary  and  that  in  manhood  he  told  Miss 
Seward  he  regarded  the  horse  <c  as  the  kindest  and 
most  generous  of  the  subordinate  tribes,"  and 

122 


rne  LAT>T  OF  rne 

went  on  to  say  :  "  I  hardly  even  except  the  dogs ; 
at  least  they  are  usually  so  much  better  treated 
that  compassion  for  the  steed  should  be  thrown 
into  the  scale  when  we  weigh  their  comparative 
merits."  But  his  passionate  feeling  for  animals 
extended  far  beyond  horses  and  dogs.  He  never 
forgot  his  grudge  against  one  distinguished 
kinsman  concerning  whom  he  writes  : 

"  When  I  was  four  or  five  years  old  I  was 
staying  at  Lessudden  House,  an  old  mansion,  the 
abode  of  this  Raeburn.  A  large  pigeon-house 
was  almost  destroyed  with  starlings,  then  a 
common  bird,  though  now  seldom  seen.  They 
were  seized  in  their  nests  and  put  in  a  bag,  and  I 
think  drowned,  or  threshed  to  death,  or  put  to 
some  such  end.  The  servants  gave  one  to  me, 
which  I  in  some  degree  tamed,  and  the  brute  of 
a  laird  seized  and  wrung  its  neck.  I  flew  at  his 
throat  like  a  wild  cat,  and  was  torn  from  him  with 
no  little  difficulty." 

In  observing  the  place  which  Lufra  holds  in 
the  poem,  it  is  not  without  interest  to  note  that 
Lockhart  thinks  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake"  was 
probably  begun  at  Ashiestiel  in  the  autumn  of  the 
year  1809,  though  not  published  till  the  following 
May,  and  that  it  was  in  the  January  of  that  same 
year  that  Camp  had  died,  the  brave  old  dog  who, 
even  in  his  last  illness,  would  leave  his  mat  by  the 
fire  and  go  as  far  as  failing  strength  would  let 
him  to  meet  his  beloved  master,  when  the  servant, 
as  he  laid  the  cloth  for  dinner,  roused  him  with  the 
news,  u  Camp,  my  good  fellow,  the  Sheriff's  coming 
home  by  the  ford,"  or  "  by  the  hill/'  Scott's 

I23 


OF 

daughter  said  she  had  never  seen  her  father  look 
so  sad  as  when  he  was  smoothing  down  the  turf 
over  Camp's  grave  while  the  whole  family  stood 
round  in  tears.  He  was  to  have  dined  out  that 
night,  but  excused  himself  on  the  ground  of  "  the 
death  of  a  dear  old  friend." 

Scott's  virtues  were  of  the  high  and  passionate 
order,  and  far  removed  from  the  mere  negations 
of  a  weak  or  small  nature.  Integrity,  purity, 
honour — these  were  with  him  the  knightly  rule 
of  life,  the  daily  affirmations  through  those  deeds 
which  wove  the  poetry  of  life  itself  in  that 
strenuous  career  of  his.  He  early  wrote :  "  '  My 
mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is.'  I  am  a  rightful 
monarch,  and,  God  to  aid,  I  will  not  be  dethroned 
by  any  rebellious  passion  that  may  rear  its  standard 
against  me."  That  mind,  which  was  indeed  his 
well-ruled  kingdom,  was  stored  to  overflowing 
with  tales  of  Border  chivalry  and  romance.  He 
had  no  need  for  research  when  he  sat  down  to 
write  u  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  in  those  early 
morning  hours  at  Ashestiel  which  provoked  Miss 
Rutherford's  questioning. 

In  the  measure  of  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel," suggested,  he  tells  us,  by  Coleridge's 
"  Christabel,"  he  had  now  become  a  familiar  and 
practised  rhymer.  And  if  mind  and  hand  were 
ready,  it  is  certain  that  his  heart  also  leapt  to  the 
congenial  effort.  We  know  where  the  scene  of 
the  poem  is  laid,  and  it  is  interesting  to  remember 
that  Lockhart,  commenting  on  a  letter  from  one 
of  his  friends  who  feared  it  might  go  ill  with 
Scott  when  the  woman  he  had  long  loved  and  half 
124 


<THS  LAT>T  OF  me 

hoped  to  win  became  the  wife  of  another,  remarked 
that  "Scott  had,  however,  in  all  likelihood, digested 
his  agony  during  a  solitary  ride  in  the  Highlands." 
That  was  thirteen  years  earlier,  and  when  Scott 
wrote  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  he  had  long  been 
a  happy  husband  and  father.  At  the  time  when 
destiny  withdrew  from  him  what  had  been  the 
hope  of  so  many  years,  he  had  not  permitted  any 
bitterness  to  hold  dominion  over  him,  and  had 
thrown  himself  eagerly  into  all  that  could  healthily 
absorb  every  leisure  moment  outside  his  daily 
tasks — translations,  poems,  Border  minstrelsy, 
militia  duties,  and  all  "  the  little  nameless  unre- 
membered  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love"  that 
marked  his  career  at  all  times  ;  and  within  a  year 
after  the  destruction  of  his  long-cherished  dream, 
he  had  met  the  lady  of  his  final  choice  and  pledged 
to  her  that  faithful  devotion  which  blessed  the 
married  life  of  both.  Yet  perhaps  it  is  not 
fanciful  to  find  in  the  romance  of  "  The  Lady  of 
the  Lake  "  not  only  the  charm  of  buoyant  happi- 
ness, but  also  of  a  certain  self-mastery  and 
chivalrous  apprehension  of  moral  strength,  all  the 
more  vital  for 

"  A  tinge  it  may  be  of  their  silent  pain 
Who   have   longed  deeply  once  and  longed  in 
vain/' 

No  appreciation  of  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake"  would 
be  complete  which  could  fail  to  note  Ruskin's 
quotation  in  "  Sesame  and  Lilies  "  of  two  lovely 
descriptive  lines  concerning  Ellen  Douglas,  and  the 
flower  which  she  herself  chose  as  her  emblem  : 

125 


OF 

"  Even  the  light  harebell  raised  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread." 

<c  But  it  is  little,"  adds  Ruskin,  "  to  say  of  a  woman 
that  she  only  does  not  destroy  where  she  passes. 
She  should  revive  :  the  harebells  should  bloom, 
not  stoop,  as  she  passes."  It  is  interesting,  by  the 
way,  to  note  the  intermingling  of  influences  at  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  centuries.  In  Scott's  early  childish 
days  Dr.  Duncan — almost  the  only  visitor  in  his 
grandfather's  house  at  Sandy  Knowe,  a  visitor 
who  was  very  impatient  of  the  child's  shouting 
recitation  of  his  favourite  ballad,  "  Hardyknute," 
and  on  one  occasion  exclaimed,  "One  may  as  well 
speak  in  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  as  where  that  child 
is " — was  old  enough  to  remember  having  seen 
Pope  and  many  of  his  distinguished  contemporaries. 
Scott  was  in  his  fifteenth  year  when  he  met 
Burns,  who  died  in  the  same  year  as  that  in  which 
his  own  first  volume  of  ballads  was  published. 
The  meeting  occurred  in  the  house  of  Professor 
Ferguson,  in  the  presence  of  Dugald  Stuart  and 
other  literary  folk,  one  evening  when  Burns  was 
deeply  moved  "by  a  print  of  Bunbury's  repre- 
senting a  soldier  lying  dead  on  the  snow,  his  dog 
sitting  in  misery  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
his  widow,  with  a  child  in  her  arms."  Scott  was 
a  warm  friend  and  literary  admirer  of  Joanna 
Baillie,  and  exchanged  letters  with  Coleridge,  as 
well  as  with  Goethe.  On  one  occasion  he  quotes 
Coleridge  in  support  of  his  own  belief  that  locality 
plays  a  considerable  part  in  the  individual  appeal  of 
126 


LAT>T  OF  rne 

much  modern  verse.  Coleridge's  name  naturally 
calls  to  mind  that  of  Southey,  and  the  fact  that 
Scott's  earliest  contribution  to  the  Edinburgh 
Review  dealt  with  some  of  Southey's  work.  Sir 
Walter's  intercourse  with  the  Wordsworths  in 
1 803  is  full  of  the  deepest  interest.  Space  forbids 
anything  but  the  most  cursory  mention  of  his 
friendship  with  Rogers  and  the  two  Hebers,  and 
of  all  that  he  did  for  James  Hogg,  "  the  Ettrick 
shepherd,"  nor  is  it  possible  to  make  more  than  a 
brief  allusion  to  Crabbe's  exclamation  when  he 
read  "  The  Poacher "  in  imitation  of  his  own 
heroic  couplet :  "  This  man,  whoever  he  is,  can 
do  all  that  I  can  do,  and  something  more." 
Scott's  analysis  of  the  character  of  Byron,  whom  he 
knew  well,  both  directly  and  through  their  common 
friend  Tom  Moore,  is  very  shrewd.  In  remem- 
bering that  he  was  the  contemporary  not  only  of 
Cowper,  but  also  of  Keats  and  Shelley,  to  say 
nothing  of  Leigh  Hunt,  though  he  lived  so  much 
longer  than  any  of  them,  there  is  a  whimsical 
pleasure  in  the  coincidence  that  in  one  of  the 
letters  in  "  Red  Gauntlet,"  published  a  few  years 
after  that  exquisite  lyric  of  Shelley's  beginning 

"  One  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it," 

"  Green  Mantle  "  writes  :  "  I  will  not  use  the  name 
of  love  on  this  occasion  :  for  I  have  applied  it  too 
often  to  transient  whims  and  fancies  to  escape 
your  satire  should  I  venture  to  apply  it  now.  For 
it  is  a  phrase,  I  must  confess,  which  I  have  used — 
a  romancer  would  say,  profaned — a  little  too  often" 

127 


OF 

Scott's  modesty  about  his  own  work  came  out 
in  a  very  amusing  way  in  relation  to  "  The  Lady 
of  the  Lake."  James  Ballantyne  remembers 
coming  into  his  library  soon  after  its  publication 
and  asking  his  daughter :  "  Well,  Miss  Sophia,  how 
do  you  like  '  The  Lady  of  the  Lake '  ? "  Her  answer 
was  given  with  perfect  simplicity  :  "  Oh,  I  have  not 
read  it ;  papa  says  there's  nothing  so  bad  for 
young  people  as  reading  bad  poetry.''  It  was 
about  the  same  time  that  his  little  boy  came  home 
from  school  after  a  fight  which  had  been  pro- 
voked by  his  indignation  at  being,  as  he  thought, 
compared  to  a  girl,  his  companions  having  dubbed 
him  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  a  title  which  to  him 
meant  nothing.  Indeed  it  was  the  same  child 
who,  having  been  asked  why  people  showed  to  his 
father  more  reverence  than  to  his  uncles,  after 
considering  for  a  minute  or  two,  replied  very 
gravely:  "It  is  commonly  him  that  sees  the  hare 
sitting." 

It  may  be  interesting  to  add,  on  the  authority 
of  Mr.  Robert  Cadell,  that  "from  the  date  of  the 
publication  of  '  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  '  the  post- 
horse  duty  in  Scotland  rose  in  an  extraordinary 
degree,  and  indeed  it  continued  to  do  so  regularly 
for  a  number  of  years,  the  author's  succeeding 
works  keeping  up  the  enthusiasm  for  our  scenery 
which  he  had  thus  originally  created." 

Mr.  Cadell  also  supplied  Lockhart  with  the 
following  details:  "The  quarto  edition  of  2050 
copies  disappeared  instantly,  and  was  followed  in 
the  course  of  the  same  year  by  four  editions  in 
octavo,  viz.,  one  of  3000,  a  second  of  3250,  and 
128 


THS  LAT>T  OF  THS 

a  third  and  a  fourth  each  of  6000  copies  ;  thus, 
in  the  space  of  a  few  months,  the  extraordinary 
number  of  20,000  copies  were  disposed  of.  In 
the  next  year,  1811,  there  was  another  edition  of 
3000;  there  was  one  of  2000  in  1814;  another 
of  2000  in  1815  ;  of  2000  again  in  1819;  and 
two,  making  between  them  2500,  appeared  in 
1825  :  since  which  time  *  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,' 
in  collective  editions  of  his  poetry,  and  in  separate 
issues,  must  have  circulated  to  the  extent  of  at 
least  20,000  copies  more.  So  that  down  to  the 
month  of  July  1836  the  legitimate  sale  in  Great 
Britain  had  been  not  less  than  50,000  copies." 

"  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel "  is  by  many 
set  higher  than  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  but  un- 
biased criticism  is  perhaps  scarcely  possible  from 
the  present  writer,  who  in  days  of  earliest  child- 
hood fell  in  love  first  with  "  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  and  yielded  to  the  enchantment  of  its 
romantic  verse  a  childish  loyalty,  which  preceded 
and  in  some  degree  awakened  the  love  of  poetry 
in  the  stricter  sense.  It  is  easy  here  and  there  to 
find  fault  with  the  occasional  jog-trot  or  jerkiness 
of  the  octosyllabic  verse,  but  it  has  been  well  said 
that  in  a  stirring  gallop  over  open  country  what 
is  most  needed  is  the  sense  of  vitality  and  verve, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  sympathetic 
reader  is  effectually  carried  away.  Paradoxical 
though  it  may  seem,  possibly  the  poem  owes 
somewhat  of  its  gaiety  and  recklessness  to  the 
complete  mastery  of  rich  and  varied  lore  which 
lay  behind  it.  For  the  absence  of  mental  effort 
or  strain  may  well  have  added  to  its  limpid  clear- 

i  129 


OF 

ness  and  spontaneity,  which  are  fresh  and  sweet 
as  the  pure  laughter  of  children,  or  of  a  Scottish 
mountain  stream  as  it  sparkles  among  the  flashing 
pebbles.  Yet  to  say  this  is  to  express  but  little 
of  its  deeper  charm. 

Clearly  as  the  mountains  which  surround  Loch 
Katrine  are  mirrored  in  its  lucid  depths,  in  this 
enchanting  little  romance  are  reflected  the  noblest 
characteristics  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Men  loved 
him,  not  for  his  pardonable  ambition  to  give  an 
added  glory  to  a  family  already  rich  in  high  and 
quixotic  traditions,  still  less  for  his  boyish  deter- 
mination to  embody  at  Abbotsford  some  semblance 
of  his  feudal  dreams,  but  for  his  large-hearted 
chivalry,  his  high  integrity,  his  warm,  quick- 
beating  heart  of  passion,  his  essential  purity  and 
magnanimity. 

Well  may  Swinburne  say  of  him,  in  his  essay 
on  that  last  published  edition  of  his  journal  from 
which  we  have  here  quoted  :  "  While  the  language 
in  which  he  writes  endures,  while  the  human  nature 
to  which  he  addressed  himself  exists,  there  can  be 
no  end  of  the  delight,  the  thanksgiving,  and  the 
honour  with  which  men  will  salute,  aloud  or  in 
silence,  the  utterance  or  the  remembrance  of  his 


name." 


130 


AN  EASTER  REVERIE 

THOUSANDS  who  are  not  of  the  Christian  faith  feel 
year  by  year  the  Earth's  Easter  parable,  and  that 
faith  is  the  richer  in  significance  for  those  beauti- 
ful myths,  of  many  ages  and  many  races,  that  have 
now  been  crowned  and  consummated  in  our  story 
of  the  risen  Master. 

Deep  within  the  heart  of  man  lies  the  key  to 
the  divine  hieroglyph  whereby  he  reads  of  a  beauty 
above  and  beyond  and  about  him.  Some  may  read 
at  leisure  whole  chapters  at  a  time.  Others  must 
drudge  so  hard  that  the  messages  reach  them  in 
instantaneous  flashes  between  heavy  tasks :  the 
vision  of  the  year's  first  golden  blossom,  perhaps, 
as  they  wash  the  doorstep  with  hands  benumbed  by 
the  bitterness  of  winter  and  soul  still  drowsy  from 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion ;  or  a  sudden  glory  of  the 
river  when  the  noonday  sky  leans  its  brightness  on 
its  heaving  bosom,  as  they  toil  for  hard-won  bread 
in  the  docks. 

Happy  are  they  who,  at  morning,  when  the  sun 
goeth  forth  as  a  bridegroom,  can  pause  for  awhile 
to  read  the  sentence  enscrolled  in  the  heavens,  and 
at  eventide  can  once  more  pause  in  the  temple  when 

"  A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey  : 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots — '  Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth  :  here  dies  another 
day.' " 


OF 

The  sunsets  here  in  the  south  have  of  late  been 
of  extraordinary  beauty,  and  of  a  delicate,  austere 
charm  that  befits  the  leafless  trees,  the  early  twi- 
light, the  ascetic  inclemency  of  the  hard-fought 
days.  Again  and  again  has  it  happened  of  late 
that  the  sky,  after  the  first  going  down  of  the  sun, 
has  been  a  sea  of  wondrous  pale  green,  on  which 
the  apple-bloom  clouds  of  rare  pale  rose-colour 
have  made  long  peaceful  lines  far  above  the  horizon, 
to  the  north-west  of  the  clear  golden  splendour 
above  the  vanished  light.  The  bare  trees  and  fields 
do  but  emphasise  the  solemn  loveliness,  and  seem 
to  await  in  grave  stillness  the  rising  of  the  moon 
and  the  coming  forth  of  the  stars. 

"  Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day  !  " 

What,  in  that  haunting  and  perfect  line,  Words- 
worth has  said  of  sleep,  is  what  many  a  strenuous 
spirit  has  felt  about  the  last  sleep  of  all.  "The 
New  Mysticism"  hints  at  the  abolition  of  earthly 
death,  but  perhaps  in  the  innermost  heart  of  us 
we  shrink  back  a  little  from  that  thought.  Dear 
and  beautiful  is  the  earth,  full  of  sights  and  sounds 
and  old  familiar  faces  that  we  love  with  steadfast 
passion  and  cling  to,  as  more  to  us  than  any  unseen 
heaven ;  but,  even  as  we  gaze  at  them,  they  are 
subject  to  the  law  of  change,  and  we  know  that  to 
remain  unchanged,  among  the  ever  changing,  would 
be  a  loneliness  far  deeper  than  that  mysterious 
change  which  can  but  deepen  our  consciousness  of 
the  reality  we  sought  in  them,  and,  with  them,  shall 
thereafter  more  completely  behold.  There  is  a 
small  butterfly,  with  wings  of  celestial  azure,  which 
132 


haunts  warm  coast-lands  and  is  a  veritable  type  of 
Psyche.  If  the  chrysalis  from  which  it  awoke 
were  capable  of  thought,  it  would  be  hard  to 
believe  that  it  would  desire  the  endless  exist- 
ence of  a  glorified  and  perfected  chrysalis.  Some 
strange  foreboding  there  would  be  that 

"  The  ends  of  being  and  ideal  grace  " 

would  be  missed,  if  the  chrysalis,  qua  chrysalis,  did 
not  die. 

"  The  New  Mysticism  !  "  that  is  the  title  of  an 
eloquent  volume  which  suggests  many  uplifting 
thoughts  even  to  those  who  regard  a  part  of  its 
"  new  "  doctrine  as  an  old  and  dangerous  heresy. 
"  If  Being  and  Existence  are  one,''  writes  the 
author,  "  one  and  indivisible ;  if  man's  soul  is  the 
expression  of  Eternal  Spirit ;  if  our  life  does 
depend  upon  *  every  word  that  proceedeth  out  of 
the  mouth  of  God/  is  it  any  wonder  that  we  perish 
when  we  feed  our  minds  as  we  do  on  words  that 
have  no  Spirit  or  Life  in  them,  on  words  which 
have  only  a  spurious  vitality  of  defective  thought 
and  feeling  ?  When  we  come  to  examine  the  kind 
of  stuff  we  try  to  live  on,  we  are  surprised  that  we 
should  be  able  to  last  as  long  as  we  do.  It  literally 
is  'such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of — shadowy, 
ghostly  stuff  of  appearances,  the  picture  of  the 
world  of  effects,  the  reflection  of  sense  experience 
with  no  substance  in  it." 

It  has  been  well  written,  "The  eyes  that  see  the 
King  in  His  beauty  will  see  nothing  else,  for  every- 
thing will  reflect  that  beauty."  Nothing  else? 
Nothing  but  the  beauty  of  that  Presence,  even  in 

133 


OF 

our  darkling  lives  here  on  earth?  If  that  be  so, 
then  indeed  was  Tennyson  right  when  he  wrote 
that  they  who  have  attained  to  that  open  vision 
behold  us,  whom  they  still  love, 

"  With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 
To  make  allowance  for  us  all." 

We  weep  that  we  seem  to  be  divided  from  them ; 

"And  yet,  this  may  be  less  so  than  appears, 
This  change  and  separation.     Sparrows  five 
For  just  two  farthings,  and  God  cares  for  each. 
If  God  is  not  too  great  for  little  cares, 
Is  any  creature,  because  gone  to  God  ?  " 


134 


FORGOTTEN  BOOKS 
V.  A  PASTORAL 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH  is  not  forgotten.  His 
immortality  is  secured,  not  only  by  the  haunting 
and  individual  sincerity  of  such  lyrics  as  "  Qua 
Cursum  Ventis,"  "A  London  Idyll,"  and  "  Qui 
Laborat  Orat,"  but  also  by  Matthew  Arnold's 
"  Thyrsis,''  in  which  the  unanswerable  pathos  is 
the  more  moving  because  it  breathes  through  the 
fragrance  and  blossoming  of  the  year's  loveliest 
season.  For,  taking  to  heart  the  storms  and 
sorrows  that  raged  outside  his  peaceful  Oxford, 
and  the  "life  of  men  unblest,"  is  he  not  tenderly 
reproached  for  leaving  the  world  too  soon,  like 
that  "too  quick  despairer,"  who  flies  away  before 
the  fulness  of  the  summer  has  come : 

"So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden-walks,  and  all  the  grassy  floor, 
With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 

And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden- 
trees, 
Come  with    the  volleying   rain  and   tossing 

breeze : 

The  bloom   is   gone,  and  with   the  bloom  go 
I!" 

'35 


OF 

Time  has  not  conquered  Clough,  but  only 
given  him  a  more  recognised  place  among  the 
nineteenth-century  poets. 

Nevertheless,  as  a  social  reformer  and  prose- 
writer,  he  is  not  much  remembered,  and,  to  most 
of  the  men  and  women  who  throng  our  London 
streets,  the  most  fascinating  and  humorous  of  his 
longer  poems,  that  "  Long  Vacation  Pastoral "  to 
which  he  gave  the  name  of  "  The  Bothie  of 
Tober-na-Vuolich  ''  is  indeed  a  book  either  for- 
gotten or  unknown.  Yet  how  it  brims  with 
practical  philosophy  and  sweet  laughter  and  sound 
common  sense  ! 

It  may  well  be  open  to  discussion  how  far,  in 
the  strictest  sense  of  the  word,  it  is  a  "  poem  "  at 
all.  It  certainly  does  not  pretend  to  the  exquisite 
melody  and  precision  of  lyric  touch  which  dis- 
tinguish "  Ite  Domum  Saturae,  Venit  Hesperus," 
that  mountain  cattle-song  in  which,  through  all 
its  spontaneity  and  music,  there  breathes  the  same 
open-eyed  and  paradoxically  childlike  acceptance 
of  life's  ironic  possibilities  and  insouciant  charm, 
and  of  the  fact  that 

" — work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we  see. 
And  God  he  knows,  and  what  must  be,  must 
be." 

Clough's  courage  is  almost  always  the  fortitude 
of  endurance  rather  than  the  reckless  dash  of 
bravado.  He  faces,  in  all  directions,  the  com- 
plexities of  life  and  the  fact  that  man's  finite  under- 
standing is  but  a  clumsy  foot-rule,  after  all,  for 
the  measuring  of  immeasurable  spaces.  He  never 

136 


BOOKS 

makes  that  a  reason  in  favour  of  shirking  the  plain 
mandate  for  its  use,  in  so  far  as  it  can  be  used, 
but  only  against  imagining  that  there  ever  can  be 
a  moment  at  which  it  has  passed  beyond  its  own 
boundaries.  In  much  of-his  best  work  there  is  a 
ceatain  half-melancholy  grace  of  patience,  of  self- 
command,  of  hope  that  is  never  an  unreasonable 
hope — a  grace  enlivened  often  by  humour  so 
delicate  as  to  be  akin,  not  to  mere  ordinary 
laughter,  but  to  that  wistful  jesting  which  may 
give  the  hint  of  coming  tears. 

Perhaps  one  reason  why  his  simplest  lyrics  touch 
us  so  deeply  and  haunt  us  so  effectually  is  found 
in  a  certain  economy  not  only  of  language  but  of 
feeling ;  for,  in  the  memoir  edited  by  his  wife,  we 
read  that  "  His  absolute  sincerity  of  thought,  his 
intense  feeling  of  reality,  rendered  it  impossible 
for  him  to  produce  anything  superficial,  and 
therefore  actually  curtailed  the  amount  of  his 
creations." 

In  a  review  which  he  wrote  on  the  poems  of 
Alexander  Smith  and  on  those  two  volumes  of 
Matthew  Arnold  which  appeared  under  the  title 
of  "  Poems  by  A./'  he  says  of  the  former  :  "  These 
poems  were  not  written  among  books  and  busts, 
nor  yet 

" '  By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals.' 

They  have  something  substantive  and  lifelike, 
immediate  and  first-hand  about  them.  There  is  a 
charm,  for  example,  in  finding,  as  we  do,  con- 
tinual images  drawn  from  the  busy  seats  of 

137 


OF 

industry ;  it  seems  to  satisfy  a  want  that  we  have 
long  been  conscious  of,  when  we  see  the  black 
streams  that  welter  out  of  factories,  the  dreary 
lengths  of  urban  and  suburban  dustiness, 

"  '  The  squares  and  streets 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets,' 

irradiated  with  a  gleam  of  divine  purity. 

|C  There  are  moods  when  one  is  prone  to  believe 
that,  in  these  last  days,  no  longer  by  '  clear  spring 
or  shady  grove,'  no  more  upon  any  Pindus  or 
Parnassus,  or  by  the  side  of  any  Castaly,  are  the 
true  and  lawful  haunts  of  the  poetic  powers  ;  but, 
we  could  believe,  if  anywhere,  in  the  blank  and 
desolate  streets,  and  upon  the  solitary  bridges  of 
the  midnight  city,  where  Guilt  is,  and  wild  Temp- 
tation, and  the  dire  Compulsion  of  what  has  once 
been  done — there,  with  these  tragic  sisters  around 
him,  and  with  pity  also,  and  pure  Compassion, 
and  pale  Hope,  that  looks  like  despair,  and  Faith 
in  the  garb  of  doubt,  there  walks  the  discrowned 
Apollo,  with  unstrung  lyre ;  nay,  and  could  he 
sound  it,  those  mournful  muses  would  scarcely 
be  able,  as  of  old,  to  respond  and  'sing  in  turn 
with  their  beautiful  voices.'  " 

How  discerning  is  this  also  from  the  same 
forgotten  essay  : 

"  The  lessons  of  reflectiveness  and  the  maxims 
of  caution  do  not  appear  to  be  more  needful  or 
more  appropriate  than  exhortations  to  steady 
courage  and  calls  to  action.  There  is  something 
certainly  of  an  over-educated  weakness  of  purpose 
in  Western  Europe — not  in  Germany  only,  or 

138 


BOOKS 

France,  but  also  in  more  busy  England.  There 
is  a  disposition  to  press  too  far  the  finer  and 
subtler  intellectual  and  moral  susceptibilities  :  to 
insist  upon  following  out,  as  they  say,  to  their 
logical  consequence,  the  notice  of  some  organ  of 
the  spiritual  nature  ;  a  proceeding  which,  perhaps, 
is  hardly  more  sensible  in  the  grown  man  than  it 
would  be  in  the  infant  to  refuse  to  correct  the 
sensations  of  sight  by  those  of  touch." 

Just  as  his  plea  for  action  comes  with  special 
weight  from  one  who  must  have  had  all  the 
impeding  difficulties  of  subtle  self-analysis  to 
contend  with,  so  the  very  fact  of  his  honest 
scepticism  adds  profoundly  to  the  value  of  that 
unconquerable  faith  to  which  he  won  through 
many-sided  doubt. 

His  sense  of  brotherhood  was  too  deep  and 
strong  to  find  facile  expression,  but,  turning  to 
his  speeches  at  Oxford,  we  find  that,  when  the 
subject  of  debate  was  that  "  the  character  of  a 
gentleman  was  in  the  present  day  made  too  much 
of,"  "Clough  spoke  neither  for  nor  against  the 
proposition ;  but  for  an  hour  and  a  half — well  on 
two  hours — he  went  into  the  origin  of  the  ideal, 
historically  tracing  from  mediaeval  times  how  much 
was  implied  originally  in  the  notion  of  a  '  gentle 
knight ' — truthfulness,  consideration  for  others 
(even  self-sacrifice),  courtesy,  and  the  power  of 
giving  outward  expression  to  those  moral  qualities. 
From  this  high  standard  he  traced  the  deteriora- 
tion into  the  modern  Brummagem  pattern  which 
gets  the  name,"  and  then  he  added :  "  I  have 
known  peasant  men  and  women  in  the  humblest 

139 


OF 

places  in  whom  dwell  these  qualities  as  truly  as 
they  ever  did  in  the  best  of  lords  and  ladies,  and 
who  had  invented  for  themselves  a  whole  economy 
of  manners  to  express  them,  who  were  very  *  poets 
of  courtesy.' ' 

This  takes  us  by  a  natural  transition  to  his 
"  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolich." 

The  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolich  is  the  Scotch 
farmhouse  to  which  Philip  Hewson,  Radical  and 
poet,  is  invited,  as  an  incidental  result  of  his 
ironical  allusion  to  the  Game  Laws,  in  a  speech 
made  at  a  dinner  given  to  the  Highland  peasantry, 
to  which  he  and  his  fellow-Oxonians  had  been 
welcomed  as  guests  while  out  on  a  reading  party. 
But,  though  the  young  Radical  is  the  hero  of  the 
"  pastoral  "  (which  is,  by  the  way,  a  skilful  experi- 
ment in  English  hexameters),  the  poem  turns 
not  so  much  on  politics,  in  the  narrow  sense 
of  the  word,  as  on  social  ethics  in  general,  and 
especially  on  the  ethics  of  marriage  : 

"  Stately  is  service  accepted,  but  lovelier  service 

rendered, 

Interchange  of  service  the  law  and  condition  of 
beauty." 

Those  two  lines  strike  the  keynote  of  the  whole, 
but  it  is  far  indeed  from  being  a  mere  sermon, 
and  mingles  the  joy  of  wild  mountain  scenery — 
cool  tarn  and  mountain  torrent  and  golden-chang- 
ing autumn  trees — with  the  peculiar  charm  of 
Oxford  and  the  brimming  gaiety  of  undergraduate 
life.  Philip  had  to  buy  practical  wisdom  at  the 
140 


BOOKS 

usual  price  in  the  market,  and  to  learn  that  the 
romantic  charm  of  poverty  may  be  as  factitious 
in  its  way  as  the  dazzling  glamour  of  wealth  or 
the  far  more  dazzling  glamour  of  passion  ;  but, 
in  the  end,  he  finds  his  mate  in  a  woman  as  strong 
and  good  as  she  is  beautiful,  the  daughter  of  a 
peasant,  of  clear  and  bright  intellect  and  intuitions 
full  of  the  tender  refinement  of  a  high  and  noble 
nature,  as  well  as  of  that  deep  and  faithful  affection 
without  which  no  wisdom  is  really  wise.  It  is  in 
the  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolich  that  he  finds  her, 
but  we  are  tempted  to  give  in  his  own  words  his 
earliest  vision  of  what  love  is  and  how  it  rebukes 
the  lackadaisical  fancies  of  mere  fashion : 

'*  Oh,  if  they  knew  and  considered,  unhappy  ones  ! 
oh,  could  they  see,  could 

But  for  a  moment  discern,  how  the  blood  of  true 
gallantry  kindles, 

How  the  old  knightly  religion,  the  chivalry  semi- 
quixotic 

Stirs  in  the  veins  of  a  man  at  seeing  some  deli- 
cate woman 

Serving  him,  toiling — for  him,  and  the  world  ; 
some  tenderest  girl,  now 

Over-weighted,  expectant,  of  him,  is  it  ?     Who 
shall,  if  only 

Duly  her  burden  be  lightened,  not  wholly  re- 
moved from  her,  mind  you, 

Lightened  if  but  by  the  love,  the  devotion  man 
only  can  offer, 

Grand  on  her  pedestal  rise  as  urn-bearing  statue 
of  Hellas ; 

141 


OF 

Oh,  could  they  feel  at  such  moments  how  man's 

heart,  as  into  Eden 
Carried  anew,  seems  to  see,  like  the  gardener  of 

earth  uncorrupted, 
Eve  from  the  hand  of  her  Maker  advancing,  an 

help  meet  for  him, 
Eve  from  his  own  flesh  taken,  a  spirit  restored 

to  his  spirit, 
Spirit    but    not    spirit    only,    himself   whatever 

himself  is, 
Unto  the  mystery's  end  sole  helpmate  meet  to 

be  with  him  ; 
Oh,  if  they  saw  it  and  knew  it ;  we  soon  should 

see  them  abandon 
Boudoir,   toilette,  carriage,  drawing-room,  and 

ball-room, 
Satin  for  worsted  exchange,  gros-de-naples  for 

plain  linsey-woolsey, 
Sandals  of  silk  for  clogs,  for  health  lackadaisical 

fancies!" 

One  of  the  finest  passages,  though  too  long  to 
quote,  is  that  which  begins  uBut  as  the  light  of 

day  enters  some  populous  city ,"  in  which  the 

redeeming  power  of  dawn  is  used  as  an  image 
of  the  redeeming  and  unifying  power  of  love  in  the 
midst  of  modern  life  : 

"  So  that  the  whole  great  wicked  artificial  civilised 

fabric — 

All  its  unfinished  houses,  lots  for  sale,  and  rail- 
way out-works — 
Seems  re-accepted,  resumed  to  Primal  Nature  and 

Beauty !  " 
142 


Singularly  beautiful  also  is  Elspie's  vision  of 
what  Philip  is  to  her  in  her  ideal  and  her  work. 

She  has  been  describing  the  laborious  upbuilding 
of  her  own  life,  as  of  one  side  of  a  bridge  : 

u  Sometimes  I  find  myself  dreaming  at  nights  about 

arches  and  bridges, — 
Sometimes  I   dream  of  a  great  invisible  hand 

coming  down,  and 
Dropping  the  great  key-stone  in   the    middle : 

there  in  my  dreaming, 
There  I  felt  the  great  key-stone  coming  in,  and 

through  it 
Feel  the  other  part — all  the  other  stones  of  the 

archway 
Joined  into  mine  with  a  strange  happy  sense  of 

completeness/' 

It  was  Clough  who  wrote  :  "  To  earn  his  own 
bread  honestly — in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word 
honestly — to  do  plain,  straightforward  work  or 
business  well  and  thoroughly,  not  with  mere  eye 
service  for  the  market,  is  really  quite  a  sufficient 
task  for  the  ordinary  mortal." 

But  what  to  this  man  was  included  in  the  day's 
u  plain  straightforward  work  "  is  implied  in  the 
fact  that  he  once  walked  for  four  days  over  a  rough 
country  to  get  medicine  for  the  sick  child  of  a 
peasant  stranger  in  the  Highlands ;  and  that  he 
seems  to  have  regarded  this  as  a  simple  act  of 
elementary  duty. 


ROSES 

GIFTS  for  a  lover,  most  exquisite  roses ! 

Love,  who  uncloses 
Your  leaves,  to  uncover 

Summer's  own  sweetness,  uplifts  far  above  her 
Messages  brought  by  her,  brought  by  the  summer  : 
(Ah,  tho'  she  brought  them,  He  only,  He  wrought 

them  /) 
Love  made  the  roses,  not  any  chance  comer. 

Crimson  of  burning,  your  heart- petals  fashion- 
Whiteness  of  passion 
To  blushes  returning, 

Gold  of  the  sunset  and  dim  divine  yearning, 
Pale  as  the  dawn-star  when  day  dawns  above  him  ! 
(Fragrance,  the  soul  of  them,  breathes  thro1   the 

whole  of  them — ) 
Roses,  the  Rose-maker  wants  us  to  love  Him  ! 


144 


BETWEEN  THE  RAINS 

IT  seems  that  the  earth  is  thankful  and  the  trees 
rejoice.  The  nights  of  soft  refreshing  rain  have 
quieted  the  dusty  ground,  and  now  the  south 
wind  swings  her  censer  thro'  the  fir-woods,  and 
even  the  alabaster  box  once  broken  by  a  woman's 
hands  can  scarcely  have  poured  forth  a  fragrance 
more  celestial  or  more  penetrating.  The  rain  we 
still  ask  for — rain  and  yet  more  rain — gives 
promise  of  descending  speedily  from  the  brooding, 
dove-coloured  skies  that  earlier  in  the  day  have 
been  white  and  blue  and  pearl-colour,  with  delicious 
April-like  changes  of  passing  showers,  on  this 
May  morning.  But  the  sweet  outpouring  of  the 
clouds  through  many  an  hour  of  this  week's 
nights  and  days  has  already  wrought  miracles. 
May-flowering  tulips,  crimson  and  white,  have 
unfolded.  The  mountain  ash  is  full  of  blossom, 
and  I  have  just  seen  a  whole  border  of  self-sown 
nemophila  in  full  glory  of  heavenly  azure,  while, 
hard  by,  the  pansies  and  violas  in  my  friend's 
garden  looked  on  the  graceful  white  Italian  sun- 
dial, near  the  climbing  passion-flower,  as  yet  only 
in  leaf.  The  lupins,  blue  and  white,  are  in  bud, 
and  in  the  same  bed,  bordered  by  the  golden 
Alison,  now  in  full  splendour,  I  noticed,  to  my 
amazement,  that  some  of  the  rhododendrons  are 
already  shedding  their  bloom  !  Nay,  more,  the 
sycamore,  which  a  fortnight  ago  was  full  of 
blossom,  is  now  dangling  its  little  bunches  of 

K  145 


OF  <pi{pse 

keys.  The  laburnums  are  showing  their  pale 
gold,  and  the  white  lilac  is  at  the  height  of  its 
beauty.  Its  homelier  neighbour,  with  its  clean 
country  smell,  is  very  lavish  this  year  in  bloom 
and  in  sweetness,  now  that  it  is  no  longer  dried 
up  with  thirst,  and  it  adorns  the  gardens  of  rich 
and  poor  alike, 

"  With  many  a  pointed  blossom,  rising  delicate, 

with  the  perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle." 

The  red  and  green  blossoms  of  the  arbor  vitae 
have  long  ago  turned  to  fruit,  but  the  chestnuts 
have  lighted  their  lovely  lamps  among  the  green, 
and  many  of  the  roses  are  in  bud,  though  the 
"  heaps  of  the  guelder-rose"  are  most  of  them 
still  but  half  out.  The  limes  have  scattered  the 
tiny,  dainty  pink  spathes  that  held  their  freshly 
unfolded  leaves,  and  before  we  know  we  shall  have 
June  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  be  haunted  by 
Browning's  Garden  Fancies : 

"  Where  I  find  her  not  beauties  vanish ; 
Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee ; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with 
me  ? " 

I  have  heard  the  wood-pigeons  making  love  in 
a  little  copse  just  off  the  common,  but  the  robins 
are  quieter  than  usual,  and  thrushes  and  black- 
birds seem  still  for  a  while  to  have  lowered  their 
jubilant  outpourings  in  a  pause,  whether  of  bliss 
or  of  expectancy,  while  we  wait  for  the  further 
146 


plenitude  of  the  coming  rain.  As  I  left  a  cottage 
where  Death  had  just  taken  by  the  hand  one  of 
the  children  who  used  to  come  running  to  meet 
me  when  I  passed  along  the  lane,  the  "  wandering 
voice"  of  the  cuckoo  seemed  to  echo  with  a 
mellower  and  more  plaintive  sweetness  than  its 
wont  from  the  far  horizon,  and  thinking  of  the 
boy's  mother  and  how  cold  and  frozen  had  seemed 
all  that  I  could  strive  to  say  to  her  of  my  own 
certainty  that  "  it  is  well  with  the  child,"  I  longed 
for  that  "  fountain  of  tears "  whereof  Arthur 
O'Shaughnessy  wrote  before  he  entered  the  "  un- 
discovered country  " : 

"  You  may  feel,  when  a  falling  leaf  brushes 

Your  face,  as  though  some  one  had  kiss'd  you  ; 
Or  think  at  least  some  one  who  miss'd  you 

Had  sent  you  a  thought, — if  that  cheers ; 
Or  a  bird's  little  song,  faint  and  broken, 
May  pass  for  a  tender  word  spoken : 

— Enough,  while  around  you  there  rushes 

That  life-drowning  torrent  of  tears. 

u  But  the  floods  and  the  tears  meet  and  gather ; 
The  sound  of  them  all  grows  like  thunder : 
— O  into  what  bosom,  I  wonder, 
Is  pour'd  the  whole  sorrow  of  years  ? 
For  Eternity  only  seems  keeping 
Account  of  the  great  human  weeping : 
May  God,  then,  the  Maker  and  Father — 
May  He  find  a  place  for  the  tears  !  " 


NEIGHBOURING  GARDENS 

THEY  are  all  -parterres  in  Allah's  Garden  ;  for  His 
garden  embraces  the  blossoming  of  the  rose  as  well 
as  the  mystic  splendour  of  the  desert.  In  every 
unbrutalised  heart  that  poet  finds  an  echo  who 
wrote  that 

"  A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot." 

There  are  three  gardens  here  that  neighbour  one 
another,  and,  though  all  are  well  loved  and  toiled 
for,  some  who  know  them  might  almost  maintain, 
perhaps,  that  the  smallest  of  the  three  betrays 
the  most  cherishing  care,  the  most  thoughtfully 
fastidious  choice  of  effects.  It  lies  embosomed  in 
trees  and  greensward,  and  crowds  an  amazing 
variety  of  precious  things  into  its  tiny  rock-garden, 
in  which  the  straight,  narrow  paths  are  hardly  more 
than  six  feet  long  in  their  miniature  mazes. 

The  Norwegian  pine  in  the  further  corner  of  the 
lawn  seems  to  have  come  straight  out  of  Hans 
Andersen's  fairy  tales,  and  the  garden  itself  is 
tended  by  a  maiden  worthy  of  his  legends,  fearless, 
and  regardless  of  the  winds  of  our  English  climate, 
waking  with  the  sun  all  the  year  round,  a  skilled 
musician,  an  experienced  bee-keeper,  and  the  owner 
of  one  of  the  best  herbariums  in  the  county.  But 
she  is  only  chief  of  the  staff  to  the  owners  of  the 
garden,  and  its  master  makes  of  it  all  a  love-offer- 
ing to  its  mistress,  a  chatelaine  still  often  in  the 
"  land  of  pain  " — an  exile  from  her  beloved  garden. 
148 


Therefore  it  is  full  of  sweet  perfumes  and  rare 
colours  :  celestial  blue  in  the  borders,  scarlet 
and  flaming  orange  here  and  there  among  the 
dark  foliage,  white  and  delicate  yellow  and  all 
shades  of  madder  and  brown  in  its  masses  of 
viola. 

But  the  heart  of  the  garden  is  its  rosery.  Roses 
of  every  form  and  hue,  from  purest  white  and 
creamy  gold  and  pale  pink,  to  the  deepest,  most 
delicious  crimson  and  the  sunset  glow  of  rosy, 
transparent  lemon-colour.  Tea-roses  especially  are 
the  glory  of  this  garden  ;  and,  now  that  the  season 
is  late  and  their  blooming  less  abundant,  exquisite 
shades  of  crimson  make  an  open  glory  in  their 
midst,where  elect  pentstemons  have  been  cunningly 
planted  among  them,  to  defeat  all  idea  of  formality 
or  primness,  in  one  large,  luxuriant  rose-bed.  The 
sweet,  poignant  odour  of  the  white  jasmine  floats 
down  to  them  from  that  sunny  wall  of  the  house 
where  wistaria  has  bloomed  before  it ;  and  all  about 
the  fruit-beds  hide  lovely  things  with  learned 
names — ivory  white  and  dimmest  blue — while  the 
purple  clematis  flaunts  it  about  the  windows  that 
look  on  the  lawn. 

But  the  big  garden,  that  runs  this  charming 
demesne  very  close,  possesses  the  overmastering 
charm  of  great  stately  elms  and  beeches — not  to 
mention  one  magnificent  cedar-tree — the  charm, 
too,  of  winding  shrubberies  and  lovers'  walks  ; 
benches  from  which  to  watch  the  sun  set  over  the 
orchard  or  behind  the  distant  village  spire  ;  a  great 
sense  of  space  and  u  retired-leisure,"  and  the 
antiquity  that  has  seen  many  generations  come 

149 


OF 

and  go,  and  hides  within  its  depths  endless  romances 
and  joys  and  sorrows.  Ah,  well !  no  small  modern 
garden,  however  alluring,  can  ever  have  quite  the 
fascination  of  these  fields  of  poetry  that  have 
grown  up  half  of  themselves  and  take  the  heart 
back  to  that  garden  where  Jane  Eyre  talked  with 
Rochester,  or  that  glorious  mingling  of  flowers 
and  fruit-trees  where  Hetty  Sorrel  picked  red 
currants,  or  that  other  garden  where  Vernon  Whit- 
ford  fell  asleep. 

The  roses  on  which  its  mistress  spends  so  much 
loving  labour,  glorious  and  generous  though  they 
be  in  fragrance  and  in  colour,  may  perhaps  be 
rivalled,  though  the  Gloire  de  Dijon  on  the  loggia 
would  be  hard  to  beat,  and  the  daintily  pencilled 
salpiglossis,  in  which  she  takes  such  pride,  may 
find  competitors  in  newer  gardens.  But  the  garden 
itself,  as  it  stretches  out  behind  the  dazzling  scarlet 
and  green  where  geraniums  and  begonias  flash 
their  brightness,  has  all  the  glamour  of  "im- 
memorial elms ''  and  half-forgotten  days  and 
bygone  dreams. 

Yet  the  third  garden,  embraced  by  one  of  the 
loveliest  and  most  peaceful  estates  in  the  Midlands, 
equally  old  and  spacious,  and  presided  over  by 
three  lovely  young  goddesses  worthy  alike  of  the 
"  lovesome  spot "  and  of  their  father,  the  ideal 
country  rector — all  enchanting  and  each  one 
different  from  the  other — this  third  garden  is  a 
Garden  of  Eden  without  any  forbidding  sword. 

Its  tall  hollyhocks  and  spreading  cedars  have 
their  counterparts  in  the  other  garden  ;  but  the 
smell  of  its  yew-hedges  in  the  sun,  and  the  sweetness 
150 


of  the  big  lavender-bush,  which  holds  a  story 
characteristic  of  the  rector's  kind  heart,  the  close 
neighbourhood  of  the  homely  and  ancient  village 
church,  the  mingling  of  all  estates  and  orders  of 
men  and  women  among  those  who  find  its  gates 
ever  open  to  them  and  its  simple  hospitality 
always  at  their  service — all  these  things  leave  in- 
describable memories  in  those  hidden  places  of 
the  soul  that,  Jong  afterwards,  like  Wordsworth's 
daffodils,  help  to  make  the  bliss  of  many  a 
solitude. 

Of  all  the  three  gardens  it  may  be  said  that  half 
their  beauty  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  give  Nature 
a  little  of  her  own  way  and  have  not  been  pruned 
to  death.  Old  Quarles  would  have  loved  them  ; 
for  in  his  "  Hieroglyphs  on  the  Life  of  Man," 
beginning  with  the  folly  of  over-zeal  in  such 
matters,  he  goes  on  to  touch  on  the  deep  mystery 
on  which  many  a  wise  modern  physician  is  begin- 
ning to  rely — a  mystery  which  holds  the  attention 
of  all  those  who  grope  after  the  idea  that  the  true 
remedy  for  human  withering  and  weakness  may  lie 
deep  in  that  well-spring  of  being  which  is  but 
another  name  for  the  divine  sonship  of  man.  Of 
flowers  and  flames  he  makes  his  imagery,  but  in 
the  main  he  is  not  hard  to  follow. 

No  brief  is  held  for  Quarles,  or  for  what  may  be 
but  a  half-truth  at  the  best,  but  he  clothes  it  in  a 
quaint  bit  of  rhyme,  of  which  a  snatch  will  make 
a  pretty  tag  to  this  string  of  holiday  recollections, 
even  though  it  be  quoted  but  in  fragmentary  and 
skipping  fashion  ;  and  those  who  like  it  not  may 
yet  smile  at  the  conceit  : 


OF 

"Always  pruning,  always  cropping, 
Is  her  brightness  still  obscur'd  ? 
Ever  dressing,  ever  topping  ? 
Always  curing,  never  cur'd  ? 

You  that  always  are  bestowing 
Costly  pains  in  life's  repairing, 
Are  but  always  overthrowing 
Nature's  work  by  over-caring  : 

Nature  worketh  for  the  better, 
If  not  hinder'd  that  she  cannot ; 
Art  stands  by  as  her  abetter, 
Ending  nothing  she  began  not ; 

But  to  make  a  trade  of  trying 
Drugs  and  doses,  always  pruning, 
Is  to  die  for  fear  of  dying  ; 
He's  untun'd,  that's  always  tuning. 

Hold  thy  hand,  health's  dear  maintainer 
Life,  perchance,  may  burn  the  stronger : 
Having  substance  to  sustain  her, 
She,  untouch'd,  may  last  the  longer : 
When  the  artist  goes  about 
To  redress  her  flame,  I  doubt, 
Oftentimes  he  snuffs  it  out." 

All  the  little  gardens  of  earth,  said  the  writer, 
are  a  part  of  Allah's  Garden  ;  but  so,  indeed,  are 
the  wildernesses  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  them  is  that 
152 


true  Pierian  spring  of  which  Quarles  and  his 
fellow-poets  have  quaffed  deeply,  but  where  every 
wayfarer  and  fool  may  quench  his  thirst — a  well- 
spring  which  may  have  stood  for  much  more, 
perhaps,  than  we  fancy  the  Greeks  dreamed  of, 
until  Plato  came,  and  a  greater  even  than  Plato — 
one  of  the  many  dim  visions  of  the  Fountain  of 
Living  Water,  the  Well  of  Life. 


'53 


APPRECIATION  OF  "SCENES  OF 
CLERICAL  LIFE  " 

[Here  reprinted  from  "  The  World's  Classics  "  by  Mr.  Henry 
Frow  de1  s  kind  permission .] 

WHEN  George  Eliot  began  to  write  these  "  Scenes 
of  Clerical  Life,"  though  she  was  already  thirty- 
six,  and  had  done  much  valuable  work  in  the  way 
of  translation  and  editorial  routine,  she  was  still 
very  diffident  of  her  own  powers,  and  thought  she 
was  lacking  in  certain  qualifications  necessary  to 
the  novelist. 

We  have  to  thank  George  Lewes,  and  also,  we 
must  add,  Mr.  Blackwood,  the  publisher  to  whom 
Lewes  submitted  these  first  anonymous  stories,  for 
the  warm  encouragement  and  sympathy  which  led 
her  to  enrich  the  world  by  a  gift  so  much  greater 
than  she,  or  her  friends  either,  had  at  first  divined 
in  her. 

Those  who  have  not  leisure  to  read  Mr.  Cross's 
deeply  interesting  biography,  yet  desire  authentic 
knowledge  of  her  life  in  relation  to  her  work, 
can  find  all  they  need,  very  succinctly  and  sympa- 
thetically given,  in  Sir  Leslie  Stephen's  charming 
volume. 

The  setting  of  the  three  stories  now  before  us 
lay  in  that  Warwickshire  which  George  Eliot  knew 
and  loved  so  well,  the  county  into  which  her 
father,  Robert  Evans,  who  was,  as  we  know,  more 
or  less  the  prototype  of  Adam  Bede  and  Caleb 
Garth,  had  moved  his  home,  when  he  became 


scenes  OF  CLS^IC^L  LIFS 

agent  for  the  Arbury  estate  under  Francis  Newdi- 
gate,  on  the  death  of  that  Sir  Roger  Newdigate  of 
Arbury  Park  who  was  the  original  of  Sir  Chris- 
topher Cheverel  in  "  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love-story.'' 
Harriet  Poynton,  Robert  Evans's  first  wife,  who 
had  died  ten  years  before  George  Eliot's  birth, 
had  been  for  many  years  a  trusted  servant  and 
friend  of  the  Newdigate  family  at  Arbury  Park, 
in  the  parish  of  Chilvers  Coton,  better  known  to 
us  under  its  pseudonym  of  Shepperton.  Milly 
Barton  seems  to  have  been  the  wife  of  a  Mr. 
Gwyther,  curate  of  Chilvers  Coton,  who  died  when 
George  Eliot  was  sixteen  years  old,  and  had  been 
a  friend  of  Mrs.  Robert  Evans,  the  latter  being 
the  original,  by  the  way,  of  Mrs.  Hacket.  We 
learn  also  that  Mr.  Tryan's  persecution  was  sug- 
gested by  an  actual  experience,  the  details,  of  course, 
being  altered.  In  "  Mr.  GilfiPs  Love-story  "  the 
excellent  plot  was  of  George  Eliot's  own  con- 
struction, though  a  certain  Sally  Shilton,  the 
daughter  of  a  collier,  transformed  by  the  novelist 
into  Catharine  Sarti,  had  really  been  adopted  by 
the  Newdigates;  and  their  young  heir,  Charles 
Parker,  did,  like  Captain  Wybrow,  die  suddenly, 
this  girl,  who  gave  promise  of  musical  gifts,  being 
at  that  time  a  little  over  twenty.  The  musical 
training  given  to  her  did  not  avail  for  the  career 
the  Newdigates  had  intended  for  her,  inasmuch  as 
her  health  proved  too  delicate,  and  she  married 
a  Mr.  Ebdell,  who  was  the  vicar  of  Chilvers  Coton. 
Out  of  these  facts  and  her  own  vivid  memories 
and  creations  George  Eliot  wove  this  beautiful 
trilogy  which  made  her  first  volume  of  fiction. 

'55 


OF 

It  was  no  haphazard  collection  of  short  stories  ; 
for  when  she  first  showed  to  Lewes  in  the  Sep- 
tember of  1856  the  scenes  in  "Amos  Barton," 
with  which  these  stories  began,  she  expressed  a 
hope  that  she  might  be  able  to  write  a  series  of 
tales  embodying  her  impressions  of  the  country 
clergy  who  had  come  her  way,  and  these  studies 
breathe  the  very  atmosphere  of  English  country 
life,  as  she  knew  it,  in  the  early  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  They  are  at  once  simple  and 
complex,  elementary  and  profound.  For  they 
touch  the  deepest  realities  of  life  itself,  with  all  its 
hidden  complexities  and  apparent  simplicities ; 
turning,  like  the  noblest  Greek  tragedy,  on  those 
primary  emotions  which  are  our  essential  heritage, 
emotions  which,  while  linking  us  with  what  is 
highest  and  most  tender  in  the  animals  as  part  of 
our  family,  link  us  also  with  the  Divine  Love 
wherein  we  are  born,  and  toward  which  the  whole 
creation  "groaneth  and  travaileth." 

Strikingly  diverse,  despite  their  common  setting, 
they  nevertheless  all  turn  upon  the  educating 
power  of  that  Infinite  Love,  manifested  through 
transcendent  human  affections — "loves"  that 
"  in  higher  love  endure," — affection  and  loyalty 
through  which  the  Most  High  often  teaches  us 
that,  as  has  been  well  said,  "  our  hearts  are  restless 
till  they  rest  in  Him,"  and  find  that  love  His 
dwelling-place. 

They  are  all  stories  of  love  and  sorrow.     Nor 
is  the  leit-motif  which  unites  them  merely  what 
Tennyson  has  expressed,  in  the  well-known  lines 
of  «  Maud," 
156 


OF  CLST^IC^L  LfFS 

"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  enwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more 
dear." 

It  is  much  more  than  that ;  for  it  suggests  that 
through  death  as  well  as  through  life  the  Divine 
Love  educates  and  redeems.  Even  when  death 
comes,  not  as  Walt  Whitman's  gentle  "  Mother  " 
and  "  Deliveress,''  but  seeming,  as  death  often 
does,  a  cruel  and  unwelcome  guest,  snatching  the 
young  mother  from  husband  and  children  when 
we  think  they  need  her  most,  or  leaving  a  May- 
nard  Gilfil  bereft  of  his  heart's  desire  on  the  very 
verge  of  its  apparent  consummation,  we  are  yet 
made  to  feel,  as  in  all  highest  art,  that  in  the 
uttermost  grief,  as  well  as  in  profoundest  rapture 
and  joy,  human  lives  are  lifted  into  unseen  possi- 
bilities, and  are  confronted  with  a  vaster  outlook, 
a  more  unquenchable  hope,  than  our  little  cur- 
tained stage  of  earthly  existence  can  ever  hold 
or  express ;  so  that  the  protagonist  in  the  conflict 
is  found  at  the  moment  of  death  crowned  with 
promises  no  human  words  can  formulate,  no 
mortal  vision  pursue  to  their  fulfiment.  The 
love  of  Amos  Barton, — too  absolute  to  dream  that 
any  fool  could  doubt  its  loyalty, — was  not  crushed 
or  embittered  by  the  bereavement  which  robbed 
him  of  his  chief  outward  joy  and  comfort,  but 
was  consecrated  to  higher  issues  which,  through 
his  grief  and  loneliness,  lifted  this  poor  "  mongrel," 
whose  "  very  faults  were  middling,"  into  fellow- 
ship with  the  loftiest  and  noblest  souls,  and  gave 
to  Milly's  children  a  heritage  that  was  far  beyond 

157 


OF 

ordinary  wealth.  The  tragedy  in  which  Maynard 
Gilfil  was  involved  forbids  any  cheap  glibness  on 
the  part  of  the  critic.  I  may  indeed  well  be 
warned  off  by  some  sneering  and  cynical  person, 
who  will  inquire  at  this  point  whether  it  is  pro- 
posed to  analyse  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  these 
beautiful  stories  on  the  level  of  a  Sunday  school 
tract.  But  is  there  any  admirer  of  this  clean- 
limbed, candid  young  chevalier  sans  reproche  who 
does  not  find  him  vastly  nearer  to  all  we  worship, 
after  he  has  passed  through  his  mortal  anguish  with 
the  courage  of  self-surrender  and  unmurmuring 
self-abnegation,  than  when  he  is  merely  an  untried, 
charming  young  parson  very  deeply  and  unselfishly 
in  love  ? 

George  Eliot  had,  doubtless,  a  special  know- 
ledge of  timber  through  her  long,  intimate 
drives  with  her  father  over  the  estates  for  which 
he  was  responsible,  and  her  imagery  is  especially 
telling  when  she  compares  "  the  dear  old  vicar,'' 
Mr.  Gilfil,  to  a  tree.  "The  heart  of  him  was 
sound,  the  grain  was  of  the  finest ;  and  in  the 
grey-haired  man  who  filled  his  pocket  with  sugar- 
plums for  the  little  children,  whose  most  biting 
words  were  directed  against  the  evil-doing  of  the 
rich  man,  and  who,  with  all  his  social  pipes  and 
slipshod  talk,  never  sank  below  the  highest  level 
of  his  parishioners'  respect,  there  was  the  main 
trunk  of  the  same  brave,  faithful,  tender  nature 
that  had  poured  out  the  finest,  freshest  forces  of 
its  life-current  in  a  first  and  only  love — the  love 
of  Tina." 

We   are   told   that    Mr.  Blackwood  was    dis- 


scenes  OF  CL&RJGJL  LIFS 

satisfied  with  the  first  part  of  "Janet's  Repentance," 
when  it  was  sent  to  him  for  publication  as  part  of 
"the  series/'  and  I  must  admit  that  it  seems  to 
me  the  least  satisfactory  part  of  the  volume  before 
us.  But  the  middle  and  end  are  so  masterly  and 
so  moving  that  the  story  as  a  whole  is  surely  one 
of  the  greatest  of  George  Eliot's  gifts  to  her  fellow- 
men.  Here,  as  in  "Silas  Marner  "  and  "Adam 
Bede,''  she  fearlessly  drew  for  us  the  story  of  a 
soul  not  only  restored  and  redeemed,  but  far 
stronger  and  more  beautiful  at  the  end  of  the 
battle  than  in  the  smooth  days  of  untroubled 
youth. 

And  how  full  of  sane,  quick-beating  charity  are 
all  these  studies  of  human  nature  !  All  alike  lead 
to  the  equipoise  not  of 

"  that  false  calm  which  many  feign, 
And  call  that  peace  which  is  a  dearth  of  pain," 

but  to  that  deep  and  vibrating  peace  which  passeth 
understanding,  that  secret  home  and  temple  of  the 
heart,  which 

"  For  its  very  vestibule  doth  own 
The  tree  of  Jesus  and  the  pyre  of  Joan." 

"  Ideas,"  as  George  Eliot  truly  says,  "  are  often 
poor  ghosts ;  our  sun-filled  eyes  cannot  discern 
them  ;  they  pass  athwart  us  in  thin  vapour,  and 
cannot  make  themselves  felt.  But  sometimes 
they  are  made  flesh  ;  they  breathe  upon  us  with 
warm  breath,  they  touch  us  with  soft  responsiv 
hands,  they  look  at  us  with  sad  sincere  eyes,  and 
speak  to  us  in  appealing  tones  ;  they  are  clothed  in 


OF 

a  living  human  soul,  with  all  its  conflicts,  its  faith, 
and  its  love.  Then  their  presence  is  a  power,  then 
they  shake  us  like  a  passion,  and  we  are  drawn 
after  them  with  gentle  compulsion,  as  flame  is 
drawn  to  flame." 

We  have  already  been  reminded  that  "  while  we 
are  coldly  discussing  a  man's  career,  sneering  at 
his  mistakes,  blaming  his  rashness,  and  labelling 
his  opinions — '  Evangelical  and  narrow,'  or 
( Latitudinarian  and  Pantheistic,'  or  *  Anglican 
and  supercilious ' — that  man,  in  his  solitude,  is 
perhaps  shedding  hot  tears  because  his  sacrifice  is 
a  hard  one,  because  strength  and  patience  are 
failing  him  to  speak  the  difficult  word,  and  do 
the  difficult  deed." 

We  all  know  the  dangers  of  indiscriminate 
giving,  but  Mr.  Jerome's  open-handedness  was 
not  indiscriminate,  and  modern  selfishness,  as  well 
as  certain  forms  of  modern  philanthropy  and 
stultified  communism,  might  well  ponder  deeply 
on  Mr.  Jerome's  assurance  that  "  I'd  rether  give 
ten  shiliin'  an'  help  a  man  to  stand  on  his  own 
legs,  nor  pay  half-a-crown  to  buy  him  a  parish 
crutch ;  it's  the  ruination  on  him  if  he  once  goes 
to  the  parish.  I've  see'd  many  a  time,  if  you  help 
a  man  wi'  a  present  in  a  neeborly  way,  it  sweetens 
his  blood — he  thinks  it  kind  on  you  ;  but  the 
parish  shillins  turn  it  sour — he  niver  thinks  'em 
enough." 

Here  is  practical  wisdom  of  the  best,  that 
practical  wisdom  which  is  born  of  the  heart  where 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  one. 

Colonel  Newcome  himself  is  not  more  finely 
1 60 


scenes  OF  CL&III&AL  LIFS 

drawn  than  Mr.  Tryan,  who,  dwelling  among  the 
squalid  homes  of  the  saddest  and  most  poverty- 
stricken,  "  wants  to  mek  himself  their  brother, 
like ;  can't  abide  to  preach  to  the  fastin'  on  a  full 
stomach." 

There  is  not  space  here  to  quote  the  description 
of  Mr.  Tryan's  study,  but  there  is  a  fine  passage 
in  which  George  Eliot  remarks  that  uthe  man 
who  could  live  in  such  a  room,  unconstrained  by 
poverty,  must  either  have  his  vision  fed  from  within 
by  an  intense  passion,  or  he  must  have  chosen  that 
least  attractive  form  of  self-mortification  which 
wears  no  haircloth  and  has  no  meagre  days,  but 
accepts  the  vulgar,  the  commonplace  and  the  ugly, 
whenever  the  highest  duty  seems  to  lie  among 
them." 

Sir  Leslie  Stephen  has  laid  his  finger  on  the 
true  vindication  of  George  Eliot's  work  from  the 
charge  of  a  too  pedantic  didacticism  and  philo- 
sophic seriousness,  when  he  reminds  us  that  it  is 
absurd  to  expect  an  author  steeped  in  philosophic 
ideals  to  present  us  in  fiction  with  a  world 
entirely  devoid  of  their  influence,  and  elsewhere 
remarks,  with  a  certain  mordant  incisiveness  :  "  If 
anybody  holds  that  morality  is  a  matter  of  fancy, 
and  that  the  ideal  of  the  sensualist  is  as  good  as 
that  of  the  saint,  he  may  logically  conclude  that 
the  morality  of  the  novelist  is  really  a  matter  of 
indifference.  I  hold  myself  that  there  is  some 
real  difference  between  virtue  and  vice,  and  that 
the  novelist  will  show  consciousness  of  the  fact  in 
proportion  to  the  power  of  his  mind  and  the 
range  of  his  sympathies." 

L  161 


OF 

Even  George  Eliot's  detractors  are  wont  to 
make  an  exception  in  favour  of  these  early  stories 
and  of  "  Silas  Marner."  I  am  of  the  other  school. 
By  this  I  do  not  mean  that  I  set  these  stories 
lower,  for  I  believe  them  to  be  masterpieces  of 
their  kind — and  their  kind  is  of  the  best — but 
only  that  I  set  the  other  work  high  also — am,  in 
fact,  in  no  sense  a  detractor,  but  a  born  admirer. 
It  is,  doubtless,  an  idiosyncrasy  of  temperament, 
and  one  which  I  am  not  insistent  to  defend,  that 
while  I  confess  the  later  novels  are  more  open  to 
criticism  than  the  earlier,  yet  for  sheer  enjoyment 
"  Middlemarch "  and  "Daniel  Deronda"  have 
been'  to  me  quite  as  enthralling  as  any ;  and  even 
the  much-criticised  "Felix  Holt"  has  given  me 
especially  keen  delight. 

In  all  George  Eliot's  work,  if  I  except  "  Brother 
Jacob"  and  "The  Lifted  Veil"  and  "Theo- 
phrastus  Such,"  I  find  power,  humour,  reality, 
indestructible  charm.  Yet,  seeking  to  adjust  the 
relative  claims  of  her  first  fiction  and  her  latest 
volumes,  I  confess  that  Milly  Barton  is  to  me  a 
more  vivid  reality  than  some  of  the  later  heroines, 
Mr.  Bates  has  to  my  thinking  more  verisimilitude 
than  certain  subsidiary  characters  in  "Deronda," 
and  Mr.  Jerome  is  a  more  familiar  acquaintance 
than  Mirah  :  but  that  is  possibly  the  result  of  my 
own  limited  vision,  whereby  I  fail  to  recognise 
Gwendolens  and  Mirahs  when  I  meet  them,  or  find 
the  salient  oddities  of  a  Mr.  Bates  more  lifelike 
than  the  cruel  emptiness  and  obstinacy  of  a 
Rosamond  Vincy,  whose  blonde  loveliness  would, 
I  fear,  effectually  blind  me  to  her  baleful  character, 
162 


scenes  OF  CLSI^IC^L  LTFB 

What  does  seem  incontrovertible  is  the  almost 
overwhelming  force  with  which  the  earlier  novels 
bring  home  to  the  heart  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
people  whom  our  commonplace  souls  would,  if 
we  met  them  in  the  flesh,  be  likely  to  pronounce 
rather  uointeresting  ;  and  the  genius  with  which 
the  value  and  significance  of  the  individual  lot 
and  of  the  individual  soul,  is  intertwined  with 
the  realisation  that  each  is  but  one  unseen  drop 
in  the  rushing  torrent  of  wider  events,  that 
torrent  itself  being  but  an  infinitesimal  incident  in 
the  cycle  of  a  vaster  cosmos. 

Those  of  us  who  believe  with  Browning  that 

"each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan ; 
Each  living  his  own,  to  boot," 

must  be  grateful  for  the  superb  art  which  never 
leaves  either  the  "  each  "  or  the  "  many  "  out  of 
account,  and,  while  indicating  the  power  of  even 
human  qualities  to  react  upon  environment  and 
insensibly  modify  circumstance,  invigorates  and 
uplifts  the  spirit  with  a  faith  deeper  than  any 
circumscribing  formula  or  narrowing  logic  of 
mere  words — faith  which  enabled  Janet  Dempster 
to  say  in  the  moment  of  parting  with  her  earthly 
deliverer,  "  God  will  not  forsake  me,"  and  to 
walk  "  in  the  presence  of  unseen  witnesses — of  the 
Divine  Love  that  had  rescued  her,  of  the  human 
Jove  that  waited  for  its  eternal  repose  until  it  had 
seen  her  endure  to  the  end." 

There    is    a    resplendent   passage  which  I  had 
marked    for    possible    quotation,    but    since    Sir 

163 


OF 

Leslie  Stephen  has  forestalled  me  in  his  chapter 
on  "  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,"  I  will  content 
myself  with  pointing  out  the  exquisitely  simple 
word  of  comfort  that  follows  close  on  this 
same  passage,  which,  but  for  that,  might  have 
seemed  to  imply  the  loneliness  of  a  world  from 
which  God  was  absent.  Tina,  who  is  likened  by 
Bates  to  his  darling  flowers,  the  "  nesh  and 
dilicate  "  cyclamens,  is  here,  as  often  throughout 
"  Mr.  GilfiTs  Love-story,"  compared  to  a  little 
fluttering  bird  ;  and  the  thought  of  the  sparrow 
that  cannot  fall  to  the  ground  "without  our 
Father  "  would  seem  to  be  implicit  in  the  allusion 
to  her  "torn  nest,"  when,  on  the  very  next  page 
to  that  which  writes  those  terrible  words  which 
say  she  and  her  trouble  were  "  hidden  and  uncared 
for,"  we  read  that,  when  she  knelt  down  to  say 
the  little  prayer  of  her  childhood,  she  added  the 
words,  "  O  God,  help  me  to  bear  it,"  and  "  that 
day  the  prayer  seemed  to  be  heard." 

In  "  Amos  Barton,"  the  first  of  the  three  stories 
now  before  us,  which,  in  the  poignant  simplicity 
of  its  unsentimental  pathos,  and  its  awakening  of 
our  sympathy  for  the  dullest  and  most  common- 
place of  men,  is  from  one  point  of  view  the 
author's  supreme  triumph,  it  is  easy  to  admit 
faults  of  construction.  It  is  much  less  perfectly 
welded  than  some  of  George  Eliot's  later  work, 
and  even  betrays  here  and  there  a  certain  stiffness 
and  awkwardness  in  its  transition  from  scene  to 
scene.  Its  unfolding  is  less  organic  and  inevitable 
than  that  of  "  Adam  Bede,"  for  instance.  Yet  I 
am  not  at  all  sure  that  what  at  first  appears  a 
164 


scenes  OF  CLS^IC^L  LIFS 

defect  may  not  be  an  obscure  source  of  added 
power  in  the  grip  which  the  story  takes  of  the 
imagination,  whether  it  does  not  for  that  very 
reason  hold  the  reader  with  a  more  impressive 
sense  of  actuality,  as  though  some  unaccustomed 
narrator  were  recalling  vividly  remembered  facts 
which  require  a  certain  effort  to  marshal  them  in 
their  due  order.  And  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  one  of  George  Eliot's  stories  more  vital  with 
the  natural  humour  of  life's  delightful  absurdities 
and  incongruities,  its  mingling  of  the  heroic  with 
the  trivial,  the  Divine  with  the  homely.  Of  wit 
also  it  has  more  than  its  share. 

In  this  quiet  story  of  a  village  town,  in  which 
there  are  no  sensational  incidents,  no  swift  sur- 
prises, no  men  or  women  in  any  way  remarkable 
except  for  simple  goodness,  the  very  laughter 
provoked  by  the  author's  scathing  sallies  against 
those  petty  egotisms  and  self-deceptions,  which 
we  are  apt  to  treat  more  leniently  in  ourselves 
than  in  others  perhaps,  not  only  relieves  the  strain 
of  what  would  otherwise  be  a  sense  of  grief  too 
heavy  to  be  borne,  but  at  the  same  time  really 
deepens  the  probing  influence  of  its  noble  pathos 
— a  pathos  which  is  always  finely  restrained,  and 
therefore  the  more  moving.  It  stands  for  ever  to 
the  honour  of  Charles  Dickens,  whose  most  vaunted 
pathetic  scenes  lacked  precisely  that  quality  of 
self-restraint,  that  he  was  among  the  first  to  recog- 
nise and  extol,  in  the  then  unknown  writer,  "  the 
exquisite  truth  and  delicacy  both  of  the  humour 
and  pathos."  In  "The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton,"  a  story  in  which  the  closing  scenes 

165 


OF 

touched  with  that  economy  of  language,  that 
wise  control  of  feeling,  which  makes  them  the 
more  profoundly  touching  from  the  absence  of 
any  emotional  flourishes  or  rhetorical  exaggeration, 
the  children  around  Milly's  death-bed  are  not 
likely  to  be  forgotten  by  any  one  who,  in  imagina- 
tion, has  once  stood  beside  them.  Indeed,  in 
her  presentment  of  children,  George  Eliot  always 
stands  supreme,  and  her  supremacy  lies  in  the 
very  fact  that  her  children  are  as  normal  and 
delightful  as  hedgerow  flowers.  They  are  just 
such  children  as  cross  life's  daily  path,  cheering 
as  daisies  and  buttercups,  or  those  dainty,  fragrant 
bindweeds  that  bear  a  star  in  their  pale  blossom- 
ing and  do  not  despise  even  the  kerbstones  of  the 
village  roadway,  or  the  hillocks  of  the  village 
graves.  In  the  early  stories  they  are  especially 
bewitching,  and  it  is  not  only  Patty  Barton  who 
warms  the  memory  with  a  loved,  caressing  presences 
but  a  whole  troop  of  merry  boys  and  girls  who 
are  never  obtruded  on  the  reader's  attention,  yet 
add  to  the  sunshine  and  the  sweetness  of  a  world 
where  there  is  much  suffering,  but  also  much 
innocent  though  transient  delight,  as  well  as  more 
enduring  joy. 

Among  the  fine  qualities  incontrovertibly  recog- 
nised in  George  Eliot's  work,  dramatic  situation 
is  not,  as  a  rule,  very  strikingly  in  evidence,  but 
there  is  a  moment  in  "  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love-story  " 
which  must  in  this  regard  satisfy  the  most  exacting 
critic : 

"  c  Yes,  Maynard,'  said  Sir  Christopher,  chat- 
166 


scenes  OF  CLST^JC^L  Lite 

ting  with  Mr.  Gilfil  in  the  library,  *  it  really  is 
a  remarkable  thing  that  I  never  in  my  life  laid  a 
plan,  and  failed  to  carry  it  out.  I  lay  my  plans 
well,  and  I  never  swerve  from  them — that's  it. 
A  strong  will  is  the  only  magic.' ' 

There  follows  an  allusion  to  the  happy  marriages 
he  has  planned  for  Anthony,  who  is  already  beyond 
the  reach  of  earthly  planning,  and  for  two  others 
dear  to  the  old  man's  heart,  but  all  tangled  in  a 
sorrowful  destiny  beyond  his  unravelling. — And 
then  .  .  . 

"The  door  burst  open,  and  Caterina,  ghastly 
and  panting,  her  eyes  distended  with  terror,  rushed 
in,  threw  her  arms  round  Sir  Christopher's  neck, 
and  gasping  out — '  Anthony  .  .  .  the  Rookery 
.  .  .  dead  ...  in  the  Rookery,'  fell  fainting  on 
the  floor." 

As  a  finished  work  of  art,  "  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love- 
story  "  is,  undoubtedly,  the  finest  of  the  "  Scenes 
of  Clerical  Life,"  though  "Amos  Barton"  is  my 
own  favourite;  but  at  is  in  "  Janet's  Repentance" 
that  we  have  perhaps  the  most  perfect  expression 
of  the  wise  and  loving  philosophy  which  underlies 
them  all.  It  is  there  that  we  are  reminded  that 
"  the  only  true  knowledge  of  our  fellow  man  is 
that  which  enables  us  to  feel  with  him — which 
gives  us  a  fine  ear  for  the  heart-pulses  that  are 
beating  under  the  mere  clothes  of  circumstance 
and  opinion.  Our  subtlest  analysis  of  schools  and 
sects  must  miss  the  essential  truth,  unless  it  be  lit 
up  by  the  love  that  sees  in  all  forms  of  human 


OF 

thought  and  work,  the  life  and  death  struggles  of 
separate  human  beings/' 

If  it  be  asked,  how  it  was  possible  that  one 
who  had  renounced  what  is  ordinarily  called  Chris- 
tianity, could  yet  indicate  with  such  sincerity,  as 
in  these  sketches  of  clerical  life,  the  very  source 
and  secret  of  its  power,  may  we  not  reply  that 
her  own  faith  was,  doubtless,  wider  and  deeper 
than  ever  found  full  expression  either  in  her  words 
or  her  life  ?  Mr.  Gilbert  Murray's  beautiful 
translation  of  Hecuba's  prayer  in  "The  Trojan 
Women  "  seems  to  me  to  sum  up  what,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  was  the  prayer  that  breathes 
through  all  George  Eliot's  work,  and  must  lead 
many  a  soul  to  Him  who  is  the  Light  of  Light  : 

"Thou  deep  Base  of  the  World,  and  thou  high 

Throne 

Above  the  World,  whoe'er  thou  art,  unknown 
And  hard  of  surmise,  Chain  of  Things  that  be, 
Or  Reason  of  our  Reason ;   God,  to  thee 
I  lift  my  praise,  seeing  the  silent  road 
That  bringeth  justice  ere  the  end  be  trod 
To  all  that  breathes  and  dies." 

But  there  were  moments — who  can  doubt  it  ? — 
when  the  great  novelist,  passing  beyond  the  barriers 
of  "  surmise  "  and  of  that  which  limits  our  finite 
share  in  the  infinite  Reason,  entered  into  the  Love 
"  which  passeth  knowledge,"  and,  perceiving  with 
the  eyes  of  the  soul  that  "  the  end  "  is  not  in  this 
life,  attained  to  those  secrets  which  the  intellect 
cannot  reach. 


168 


"GOING  INTO  THE  SILENCE" 

You  will  have  bathed  in  stillness. — CHARLES  LAMB. 

IT  is  easy  to  exaggerate  the  "  sentimental  emotion- 
alism "  of  our  grandmothers — to  forget  that  they 
were  often  protected  from  hysterical  fashions  of 
feeling  and  behaviour  by  a  saving  sense  of  humour 
and  a  delicate  wit.  No  doubt  they  had  their 
dangers,  but  the  very  quietness  of  their  lives 
tended  to  self-restraint,  dignity,  and  reserve. 
Among  highly  educated  women — and  there  were 
many  such,  even  though  they  were  not  all  a  Mrs. 
Somerville  or  a  Mrs.  Browning,  a  Mrs.  Gaskell  or 
a  Miss  Yonge — the  long  hours  of  manual  occu- 
pation gave  opportunity  for  original  and  reflective 
thought  and  for  a  certain  deepening  of  character, 
such  as  only  the  finest  natures  gain  in  that  opposing 
stress  of  modern  bustle  and  noise,  by  which  too 
frequently  the  weak  and  flimsy  ones  are  frittered 
away  or  ruinously  disintegrated. 

There  is  a  verse  of  Matthew  Arnold's  "  Fare- 
well," in  which  he  speaks  of  women  as 

"  things  that  live  and  move, 
Mined  by  the  fever  of  the  soul." 

And  the  fever  is  likely  to  increase  alarmingly  with 
the  increase  of  complicated  responsibility  in  our 
modern  life,  and  is  likely  also  to  tell  most  severely 
on  the  tenderest  and  the  bravest.  If  the  women 
of  the  past  were  sometimes,  we  are  told,  engrossed 
in  trivialities,  through  the  lack  of  a  wide  intellec- 

169 


OF 

tual  outlook,  the  women  of  to-day  may  be  in 
danger  of  shallowness,  through  the  very  multi- 
plicity of  their  interests  and  cares,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  through  their  self-satisfied  absorption 
in  the  one  person  who  is  the  centre  of  their  lives. 

But  the  door  of  salvation  from  this  lowering 
process  is  even  now  not  shut  to  them,  and  there 
are  many  ways  in  which  some  of  the  busiest  may 
still  "  buy  oil  for  their  lamps."  If  a  woman  be 
ever  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  unable  to  enter  the 
temple  of  art  for  heavenly  merchandise,  or  to 
gather  the  flower  of  peace  in  her  own  garden  plot, 
or  even,  through  some  unhappy  doubt,  may  feel 
unable  to  join  in  the  ancient  liturgy,  with  its 
joyous  and  tranquillising  effects,  there  are  yet 
moments  of  enforced  waiting  and  monotonous  toil, 
when  the  touch  of  unseen  Love  will  meet  all  honest 
effort  after  secret  converse,  by  a  rekindling  of  the 
light  that  had  gone  out. 

It  sounds  like  a  paradox  to  say  that  those 
who  are  most  vividly  in  touch  with  their  fellow- 
creatures  most  crave  solitude ;  but  it  is  a  para- 
dox by  no  means  so  paradoxical  as  it  looks.  To 
crave  solitude  is  not  to  wish  to  be  lonely  nor  to 
desire  continued  isolation  ;  a  solitude  which  was 
perpetual  would,  indeed,  lose  all  its  charm.  The 
highest  peak  of  a  mountain-top  is  a  heavenly 
place;  but  who  would  choose  to  dwell  there 
always,  unless,  indeed,  it  proved  that  meeting- 
place  of  souls,  that  "  paved  work  of  a  sapphire 
.  .  .  When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also," 
which  Browning  took  as  the  symbol  of  the  most 
satisfying  of  all  human  companionships  ? 
170  ' 


rne 

The  soul  that  has  never  felt  "  life's  fretful 
fever  "  has  never  truly  longed  for  solitude.  And 
though  anything  so  unhealthy  as  "  fever  "  may  be 
incompatible  with  the  highest,  purest  love,  and 
with  that  "  enthusiasm  of  humanity  "  which  is  the 
most  catholic  of  affections,  yet  even  a  perfectly 
unselfish  passion  (and  who  is  so  perfect  as  to  be 
absolutely  unselfish  ?)  may  crave  an  occasional 
withdrawal  from  the  material  presence  of  the 
dearest  of  fellow-creatures,  if  only  to  realise  its 
own  reality  and  find  renewed  strength  and  joy  in 
its  own  validity.  Milton's  Adam  exclaims  in  his 
own  Eden  : 

"  For  solitude  is  sweet  society, 
And  short  retirement  urges  swift  return." 

One  of  Browning's  loveliest  lyrics  asserts  the  con- 
verse of  this,  and  speaks  of  the  dual  solitude  as 
never  so  intense  as  when 

"  Up  and  down  amid  men,  heart  by  heart  fare  we  !  " 

But  if  this  be  true  of  the  love  of  lovers,  there 
is  a  larger,  deeper  reason  why  those  who  renounce 
themselves  for  the  good  of  the  race  must,  if  their 
sympathies  be  quick,  meet  the  revitalising  presence 
of  Love  in  solitude  as  well  as  in  the  crowd.  Un- 
doubtedly the  women  of  to-day  stand  in  special 
need  of  that  occasional  solitude  which  it  is  often 
so  hard  for  them  to  secure.  For  many  a  noble- 
hearted  woman  the  only  certainty  of  this  calming 
and  bracing  remedy  for  irritation  and  exhaustion 
lies  in  the  steadfast  adherence  to  the  practice  of 
setting  apart  out  of  the  long,  active,  unselfish  days, 

171 


s  OF 

one  daily  half-hour  in  which  there  is  literal 
obedience  to  the  Master's  command,  not  only  to 
enter  into  a  room  where  others  are  not  passing  to 
and  fro,  but  also  to  "  shut  the  door  " — to  gain,  in 
fact,  the  quiet  peace  of  what  the  Society  of  Friends 
rightly  names  "going  into  the  silence,"  a  silence 
wherein,  as  in  Charles  Lamb's  "  Quakers'  Meet- 
ing," "  the  mind  "  has  often  "  been  fed  "  as  well 
as  the  soul. 

To  live  incessantly  for  others,  and  in  others,  is 
to  live  a  hundredfold ;  and  this  multiplex  activity 
may  doubtless  be  far  less  perilous,  even  physically, 
than  the  maddening  strain  of  a  carking  self- 
regard  ;  yet  it  can  only  be  healthily  sustained  by 
the  invigorating  renewal  of  individuality  in  solitary 
communion  with  that  angel  of  Love  and  Light 
with  whom  Israel  wrestled  till  daybreak,  and  who 
since  the  days  of  Israel  has  revealed  His  name 
more  fully. 

To  be  alone  is  not  to  be  lonely ;  the  deepest 
loneliness  of  all  is  found  in  uncongenial  company. 

Doubtless  a  man  feels  this  in  proportion  to  the 
vividness  and  sensitiveness  of  his  sympathies.  But 
it  was  another  side  of  the  question  which  suggested 
the  paradox.  The  quick  sense  of  human  kindred 
is  a  daily  delight ;  yet  how  precious  must  be  ac- 
counted those  hours  of  joy  in  which  it  is  untouched 
by  pain !  In  that  "  star  Rephan  ''  of  which 
Browning  writes  it  may  be  otherwise.  But  that 
thought  stultifies  itself  at  the  outset,  and  merely 
proves  what  has  here  been  asserted,  as  by  a  sum 
in  subtraction  you  prove  a  sum  in  addition.  For 
we  are  met  by  the  poet's  implied  suggestion  that 
172 


i^ro  rns 

we  have  passed  beyond  that  sphere  where  there  is 
no  unhappiness,  no  sense  of  discord  or  of  aspira- 
tion, into  a  life  where  each  is  bound  to  all  and  no 
sorrow  is  wholly  individual,  and  wherein  the  old 
French  proverb  becomes  true  in  a  deeper  sense  than 
is  intended,  arid  "  il  faut  souffrir  pour  £tre  belle/' 
If  character  is  to  become  beautiful,  with  an  ever 
widening  and  deepening  sympathy,  the  fire  of 
fellow-feeling  must  at  times  scorch  and  shrivel 
many  easeful,  self-indulgent  tendencies  which 
cannot  vanish  without  a  little  salutary  hurting. 
As  for  the  just  punishment  of  that  paltry  self- 
seeking  and  greed  of  admiration  felt  by  the  poor 
thin-skinned  wretches  who  call  themselves  sensi- 
tive and  are  known  as  "touchy,"  it  is  not  of  their 
self-centred  pain  that  beauty  can  be  born.  To 
such  there  is  here  no  briefest  allusion,  for  in  no 
large  sense  are  they  wont  to  excel  in  sympathy, 
being  much  more  likely  to  see  all  things  refracted 
and  distorted  through  their  own  self-regarding 
fantasies.  On  the  other  hand,  all  self-renouncing 
regard  for  the  just  claims  and  true  interests  of 
others  tends  to  robustness  of  character. 

To  rejoice  with  those  who  rejoice,  and  to  weep 
with  those  who  weep,  with 

"  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself, 
To  soothe  and  sympathise," 

must  doubtless  involve  pain  as  well  as  joy,  even 
though  it  meet  Romola's  definition  of  happiness, 
as  that  to  be  chosen  above  all  else,  and  though, 
like  all  merging  of  self  in  greater  and  diviner 
interests,  it  must  necessarily  ennoble  and  in- 

173 


s  OF 

vigorate ;  yet  even  the  suffering  which  there  will 
be  may  result  in  a  deepening  of  that  calm  and 
joyous  energy  which  is,  like  all  virtue,  its  own 
crowning  reward. 

But  energy,  in  proportion  to  the  strenuousness 
and  reality  of  its  effort,  demands  at  intervals  a 
counterbalancing  and  regenerating  repose.  We 
know  from  the  lives  of  all  men  in  all  ages  that 
when  the  ear  is  very  sensitive  to  the  "  still, 
sad  music  of  humanity,"  so  that  the  sound  of  its 
laughter  and  its  tears,  its  joy  and  grief  and  hope 
and  failure,  reverberate  unceasingly  through  the 
frail  human  brain  of  the  listener,  the  tension  at 
times  demands  a  withdrawal  into  the  great  silence, 
where  He  who  "  fashioneth  all  the  hearts  of 
them  "  may  "  cover  them  with  His  Presence  from 
the  strife  of  tongues." 

And  if  it  be  impossible  to  be  alone  with  the 
woods  and  hills  or  to  go  into  a  desert  place  apart, 
a  moment  with  a  picture  of  Turner  or  a  poem  of 
Wordsworth  may  take  the  soul  into  the  stillness 
in  which  the  nearness  of  the  Great  Companion  is 
realised.  Is  not  this  the  debt  that  we  owe  to  all 
great  art  ?  Art  may  be  what  men  call  secular — 
surely  a  crass  distinction,  since  the  whole  universe 
is  sacred — but  if  it  be  noble  art,  it  will  always 
draw  aside  the  veil  from  that  mysterious  presence 
chamber,  the  Temple  of  Rest. 

The  Divine  Peace  that  abides  there  will  seldom 
permit  either  man  or  woman  to  remain  long  in 
inactivity,  for  it  is  a  part  of  the  mystery  that  the 
love  which  breathes  such  penetrating  repose  into 
the  out-wearied  spirit  is  yet  that  energy  of  love 


rns 

of  which  Wordsworth  wrote,  as  the  very  life  of 
life,  when  he  said : 

"Life,  I  repeat,  is  energy  of  love." 

It  is  the  other  side  of  the  paradox  (which  is  in 
itself  by  no  means  paradoxical)  that  they  who 
best  love  the  Presence  found  in  solitude  will  best 
love  their  fellow-creatures. 

If  we  seek  solitude,  cherishing  hatred  in  our 
heart,  the  solitude  will  certainly  be  odious  to  us, 
and,  though  it  may  have  been  sought,  it  can 
hardly  be  said  to  be  loved.  But  for  the  servant 
and  the  friend  of  Love,  the  wilderness  will  blossom 
as  the  rose,  and  the  solitary  place  will  rejoice  and 
sing. 

Perhaps  to  a  woman  longing  to  carry  blessing 
to  the  hearts  and  lives  of  others  it  may  be  in  the 
pressure  of  the  crowd  who  will  throng  her  return 
that  she  will  most  vividly  feel  and  touch  the  kindly 
recreating  Presence  who,  whether  in  the  desert  or 
the  market-place,  is  so  perpetually  waiting  to  renew 
our  humanity,  that  "  Closer  is  He  than  breathing, 
nearer  than  hands  and  feet."  She  will  come  back 
into  that  multitudinous  throng  which  constitutes 
human  life,  with  a  new  radiance  on  her  face  and 
in  her  heart ;  a  look  of  courage  for  the  downcast, 
a  tender  smile  for  the  sad,  an  electric  silence  of 
sympathy  for  those  who  can  bear  no  word.  Her 
own  soul  will  kindle  others  with  the  joy  of  fellow- 
ship and  the  anguish  of  pity.  Life  will  be  to  her 
one  long  poem,  in  which  the  sorrowful  and  sordid 
details,  the  madness,  the  despair,  are  all  trans- 

175 


S  OF 

figured  and  redeemed  by  fellowship  Divine  and 
human  ;  and  at  the  end  of  life  she  will  ask  no 
better  guerdon  than  to  be  able  to  say  of  Love  : 

"  He  rushes  on  my  mortal  guess 

With  his  immortal  things. 
I  feel,  I  know  him.     On  I  press — 
He  finds  me  'twixt  his  wings." 


176 


A  HOLIDAY  ON  DARTMOOR 

To  most  people  the  sound  of  "  the  moors " 
will  at  once  suggest  Scotland.  To  them  "the 
moors  "  mean  a  great  waste  of  fragrant  heather, 
where  through  the  long  days,  knee  -  deep  in 
the  hardy,  purple-blossomed  twigs,  they  taste 
the  clear,  invigorating  air,  and  industriously— 
shoot. 

But  in  England  too  there  are  moors.  In  York- 
shire there  are  wide  reaches  of  upland  where  the 
brown  grass  waves  among  the  purple  ling  and 
the  air  is  pure  and  sweet  and  fine. 

And,  to  say  nothing  of  Exmoor,  in  the  northern 
half  of  Devonshire,  here  in  the  midst  of  South 
Devon  there  is  a  great  moor,  where  gorse  and 
heather  are  breaking  into  bloom,  where  the  wild 
ponies  cry  to  one  another  from  the  hills,  and  the 
white-bosomed  swallows  fly  hither  and  thither, 
and  the  mountain  streams  are  ever  rushing  and 
leaping  and  making  their  sweet,  cool  noises  among 
the  moss  and  fern.  This  moor  is  no  wild  desert, 
no  lofty,  monotonous  level.  Sometimes  it  is 
broad,  rocky  upland,  all  heath  and  gorse  ;  but 
oftener  it  is  broken  here  and  there  by  cornfields 
and  green  meadows. 

Here  on  its  edge,  in  the  valleys  and  clustering 
round  the  churches  on  the  hills,  are  human  habita- 
tions, grey  stone  houses,  thatched  cottages,  and 
mills.  But  these  have  a  comfortable  woodland 
air,  as  if  they  had  come  with  the  boulders  or 

M  I77 


OF 

grown  with  the  trees.  The  blue  smoke,  as  it 
curls  from  their  chimneys,  brings  no  reminder 
of  towns  or  cities ;  it  does  but  emphasise  the 
tranquil  solitude  of  the  surrounding  country. 

Near  to  Princetown,  in  the  heart  of  the  moor, 
still  lingers  a  fragment  of  the  primeval  oak 
forest  where  in  old  days  the  Druids  celebrated 
their  mysterious  rites.  Memories  cling  round  its 
name.  Wistman's  Wood  it  is  called.  But  even 
the  name  is  not  so  weird  as  the  place.  Ferns 
grow  on  the  mossy  boughs  of  the  gnarled  and 
ancient  oaks.  Often  one  of  the  trees  will  wreathe 
its  twisted  branches  with  those  of  its  neighbour  in 
fantastic  entanglement.  Luxuriantly  leafy,  but 
crooked  and  dwarfed,  are  these  oaks.  Shoulder- 
deep  in  bramble  and  bracken,  they  are  half  buried 
also  by  slabs  and  pyramids  of  lichened  rock  and 
time-worn  stone.  It  is  a  fine  place  for  twisted 
ankles  ;  stepping  into  what  looks  like  innocent 
fern,  the  unwary  explorer  stumbles  over  a  jagged 
boulder  or  falls  into  a  treacherous  hollow  or  grassy 
bog. 

Below  the  lower  edge  of  this  elfin  wood  flows 
a  babbling,  sobbing  stream  ;  and,  crowning  the 
slope  above,  wild,  rocky  slope,  where  the  delicate 
bell-heather  is  budding,  and  tiny  orange-brown 
butterflies  are  wandering,  rise  rugged  masses  of 
granite,  very  like  the  tors  which  mark  the  sur- 
rounding hills,  though  on  a  much  larger  scale. 
Very  different  is  this  fortress  of  stone  from  the 
cairn  on  the  top  of  Snowdon  and  other  Welsh 
mountains.  This  is  not  a  cone  of  heaped-up 
shingle,  but  a  pile  of  formidable  slabs  built  up 

178 


cxf  HOLID^T 

one  above  the  other,  now  jagged  and   irregular, 
now  shaped  like  a  rude  altar. 

The  loneliness  even  here  is  broken  by  the  lowing 
of  the  cattle — beautiful  red  Devonshire  cattle  that 
come  for  shelter  from  sun  and  wind  beneath  the 
shadow  of  these  rocks.  There  are  sheep  too,  but 
they  have  been  shorn  and  cannot  pretend  to  any 
snowy  whiteness,  though  in  this  part  of  the 
county  there  is  no  warm-coloured  loam  to  give 
them  the  ruddy  tinge  to  which  the  eye  is  accus- 
tomed in  the  sea-coast  valleys.  As  they  wander 
bleating  over  the  hills  they  are  but  grey  and 
ordinary  sheep. 

August  is  not  here  a  sultry  month.  There  are 
days  when  the  sky  is  a  deep,  cloudless  blue  and 
the  air  heavy  with  languid  heat  and  sunshine. 
But  how  many  are  the  days  when  the  pearly  clouds 
chase  one  another  across  the  azure  space,  when 
the  hills  are  dappled  with  brilliant  light  among 
the  ever-shifting  shadows  ;  days  when  the  air  is 
pure  and  quickening,  and  the  little  red-breasted 
wind^chat  flies  from  twig  to  twig  of  the  peach- 
perfumed  gorse,  that  is  even  now  blossoming  into 
its  August  splendour  of  billowy  gold. 

On  such  a  day  should  Wistman's  Wood  be 
seen,  and  then  from  those  granite  boulders  what 
a  glorious  landscape  rolls  itself  out !  Beyond  the 
open  moorland  the  hills  lie  fold  on  fold,  now 
illumined  by  a  distant  flash  of  radiance  to  a  bright 
and  delicate  verdure,  now  almost  golden  in  the 
sunlight,  now  again  dusky  with  fir-trees  or 
shadowed  by  those  rounded  blocks  of  snow-white 
cloud  that  sail  across  the  stainless  blue  overhead. 

179 


OF 

The  heather  is  very  late  this  year ;  nor  can  this  be 
called  exactly  a  heather  country,  though  the 
common  purple  heath  grows  well  among  the 
gorse,  and  the  bell-heather  blossoms  in  the  boggy 
part  of  the  moor,  and  ling  will  soon  be  tolerably 
abundant.  But  the  hue  of  the  tiny  heather-bells 
has  not  yet  darkened  from  the  tint  of  the  foxglove 
to  bluish  purple,  and  is  mingled  here  and  there 
with  the  russet  of  the  reddening  whortle-twigs. 
Sometimes  there  is  a  glowing  patch  upon  the 
far-off  hills,  but  the  chief  variety  of  colour  is 
given  by  the  luxuriant  woodland,  which  clothes 
the  lower  slopes  on  the  edge  of  the  moor  and 
follows  the  courses  of  the  streams.  There  also 
the  ash  almost  loses  its  sameness,  and  assumes 
a  certain  statelinesss  and  wealth  of  foliage  which 
come  near  to  beauty.  Beech-trees  are  always 
lovely,  though  in  the  wilder  valleys  they  grow 
too  closely  to  develop  that  splendid  strength  and 
symmetry  which  give  to  them  so  perfect  a  grace 
in  well-planted  avenues.  The  oaks  also  are  small, 
and  their  stems  seem  to  have  caught  the  silvery 
glimmer  of  their  neighbours,  the  birch-trees. 
The  berries  of  the  graceful  mountain  ash  are  not 
yet  scarlet ;  and,  though  wild  raspberries  drop 
their  pink  fruit  into  the  sedgy  undergrowth  that 
borders  the  woodland  streams,  and  nuts  have 
taken  the  first  touch  of  brown  upon  the  hazels, 
the  lilac-tinted  blackberry  blossoms  are  not  yet 
over,  and  the  wild  strawberry  is  still  plentiful. 
The  harebell  does  not  grow  here,  but  a  dainty  pale 
blue  campanula  springs  from  the  mossy  turf  under 
the  trees  beside  the  brooks.  Meadowsweet  and 
1 80 


of  HOLID^T 

wood-betony  and  wild  thyme  grow  plentifully, 
and  innumerable  ferns,  from  the  common  poly- 
pody to  the  royal  osmunda.  And  everywhere  in 
the  woods  are  sweet-smelling  fir-teees,  everywhere 
the  clear  and  sparkling  rills  are  musical  among 
the  stones,  and  fragments  of  rock  peep  out 
through  the  undergrowth,  clothed  with  ivy,  and 
lichen,  and  moss.  These  rocky,  river-haunted 
woods  recall  those  lines  of  Keats  in  which  Lorenzo 
describes  to  Isabella  the  secret  place  where  his 
murderers  buried  him  : 

4 'Saying,  moreover,  *  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortleberries  droop  above  my  head 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed  : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 

And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb.'"  * 

It  only  needs  the  orange-winged  butterflies  and 
the  yellowing  bracken  to  make  the  picture 
complete. 

You  will  say  this  is  not  moorland  scenery. 
But  it  is  all  a  part  of  Dartmoor  just  as  truly 
as  the  less  frequent  hut-circles  and  bogs,  does 
indeed  follow  the  course  of  the  Dart,  and  is  in  its 
way  characteristic :  moreover,  here  we  are  on  the 
edge  of  the  moor  rather  than  in  its  central  strong- 
hold. Nevertheless,  let  us  go  forth  again  to  the 
wild,  fenceless  gorse-country,  and  breathe  a  more 

*  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Keats  writes  his  preface  from 
Teignmouth. 

181 


OF  <p%pse 

mountainous  air,  and  scan  a  wider  horizon,  and 
count  the  multitudinous  heights  and  valleys  that 
lie  beneath  us ;  and,  southward,  where  the  hills 
roll  more  gently  towards  the  coast,  let  our  eyes 
rest  upon  the  level  line  of  the  distant  sea.  There 
is  a  magical  charm  in  this  south  country,  not 
least  in  these  waste  places.  The  air,  though 
exhilarating,  is  balmy ;  the  sky,  though  breezy,  is 
blue.  There  is  a  soft  glamour  and  enchantment. 
It  is  a  land  of  dreams.  Are  we  for  once  rid  of 
all  painful  realities,  all  torturing  problems  ? — May 
we  construct  a  world  of  our  own  imaginings,  an 
idyllic  world  into  which  neither  sin  nor  sorrow 
can  enter  ? 

What  is  that  ugly  blot  upon  the  moor,  that 
dreary  range  of  unbeautiful  buildings  ? — It  is  a 
prison.  The  world  is  not  idyllic,  and  it  is  better 
to  face  its  ugly  facts  than  to  pretend  a  comfort- 
able blindness.  It  is  well  for  the  soft  effeminacy 
of  a  self-indulgent  age  that  it  cannot  always 
escape  the  sight  of  suffering.  The  swallows  fly, 
the  sun  shines,  the  wild  flowers  unfold  their  gay 
petals.  The  young  rabbits  are  so  tame  that  the 
village  children  can  catch  them.  This  heathery 
moorland  suggests  the  wildest,  sweetest  freedom. 
Yet  even  here  there  is  a  prison.  Even  here  we 
are  reminded  "  what  man  has  made  of  man." 


182 


L'ENVOI  TO  THE  THREE 
FOLLOWING  SONNETS 

Written  in  the  week  following  King  Edward's  death,  at 
the  moment  of  the  terrible  mining  accident  which  called 
forth  Queen  Alexandra?  s  help  and  sympathy  in  the  midst 
of  her  oivn  grief. 

OH,  dear  Queen-Mother,  now  we  kiss  your  hands 
For  writing  words  that  let  us  share  your  pain  ! 
Would  we  might  comfort  you !     But    not   in 

vain 

Shall  be  your  trust  :  the  Empire  understands 
This  day  her  duty,  and  through  all  her  lands 
True  to  that  great  commission  shall  remain, 
Seeing  in  your  son  your  "  Dearest "  once  again 
And  deeply  loyal  to  his  least  commands. 
We  bless  you  too  for  help  to  those  poor  wives 
From  whom  the  pitiless  earth  has  swallowed  up 
The  men  they  loved.  Oh,  may  the  God  above, 
Who  visiteth  "  souls  in  prison,"  to  such  lives, 
From  the  inscrutable  depths  that  filled  their  cup 
And  yours,  dear  Mother,  give  Himself,  who  is 
Love  ! 


183 


TO  THE  PEACEMAKER'S  MEMORY 
THREE  SONNETS 

I  LIVE  secluded  and  since  life  began 

Had  never  once  set  eyes  upon  the  King ; 
Yet  from  my  soul  his  praise  I  learned  to  sing 

As  one  who  built — love's  faithful  artisan— 

A  Palace  of  Pity :  in  his  mortal  span 

Lay  duties  that  might  break  an  angel's  wing 
And  crush  a  king  thus  human.     Wondering, 

I  saw  how  he  achieved  them — he,  a  man  ! — 

He  shared  his  people's  pleasures  and  withstood 
The  caste-conventions  that  might  hold  apart 
A  King  and  People. — The  great  Architect 

Blessed  this  Grand  Mason  of  the  Brotherhood 
Who  worked  with  generous  toil  of  hand  and 

heart 
In  that  vast  temple  love  and  peace  erect. 

VITAL  and  simple,  scorning  empty  pride, 

Duty  to  him  was  ever  dominant. 

He  never  scamped  his  work  ;  no  touch  of  cant 
Obscured  this  kingly  heart  that,  far  and  wide, 
Loved,  pitied,  wounded  wastrels  that  abide 

In  a  dark  hell :  on  those  poor  lives  that  pant 

For  help  and  healing,  he  bestowed  no  rant, 
But  deep  compassion  with  true  deed  allied. 
God  bless  him,  God  who  blesseth  quick  and  dead, 

Who  hath  the  peacemakers  His  children  called  ! 
This  man  refused  from  work  for  us  to  cease 
184 


ro  rne  *P&>fceM*fKe3£S 

While  breath  was  in  his  body.     Disenthralled 
Of  that  laborious  crown  which  tires  the  head, 
The  faithful  servant  hath  at  last  release. 

WHO,  who  can  boast  when  Death  is  standing  by 
To  level  king  and  commoner  and  call 
An  emperor  as  roughly  as  a  thrall  ? — 

Would  God,  when  we  poor  labourers  come  to  die 

And  our  disrobements  in  their  coffins  lie, 

Such  well-earned  peace  as  his  might  crown  us  all ! 
When  on  our  little  stage  the  curtains  fall. 

Will  our  small  tasks  show  nothing  left  awry  ? 

He  loved  the  suffering,  and,  untiring,  sought 
The  nations  of  the  earth  with  peace  to  crown. 
No  king  could  hold  regalia  more  sublime 

Than    a   world's   love    and    peace    by   friendship 

wrought — 

This  jewelled  circle  is  undying  renown, 
Not  death,  but  coronation  for  all  time. 


AN  EARLY  VICTORIAN  NOVEL 

NEXT  in  discernment  to  the  criticism  of  sympathy, 
which  is  the  most  divining  of  all,  is  that  unex- 
pected and  incisive  appreciation  which  is  the 
criticism  of  antithesis,  when  those  who  stand  at 
the  opposite  pole  of  intellectual  aspiration  or 
spiritual  belief,  by  formulating  some  crying  need, 
or  emphasising  some  contrary  aspect  of  the  truth, 
unconsciously  urge  the  fulfilment  of  the  one  or  add 
importance  to  the  complement  of  the  other. 

And  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  anywhere 
phrases,  or  attitudes  of  mind,  suggestive  of  a  more 
just  discrimination  of  the  precise  and  individual 
value  of  such  a  novel  as  "  John  Halifax  "  than  are 
those  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison's 
Essay  on  Victorian  Literature,*  an  essay  in  which 
neither  the  book  nor  its  author  is  even  so  much  as 
named.  "  Every  one  is  afraid,"  says  Mr.  Harrison, 
"to  let  himself  go,  to  offend  the  conventions,  or 
to  raise  a  sneer.'' 

It  is  because  Miss  Mulock  feared  none  of  these 
things,  but  cared  only  to  speak  her  message  with 
clearness  and  obedience,  while  earning  an  honest 
day's  wage  by  an  honest  day's  work,  that  the  book 
not  only  went  straight  to  its  mark  just  where  its 
simple  poetry  was  most  profoundly  wanted,  but 
has  also  retained  an  ever-widening  popularity 
wheresoever  "  the  English  tongue "  is  spoken  ; 

*  "  Studies  in  Early  Victorian  Literature  "  (Edward  Arnold). 

186 


and  has  become,  to  many  a  draughtsman,  trades- 
man, and  hard-handed  toiler,  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,  a  dear  companion  and  a  household  name. 

Mr.  Harrison  also  points  out  how  many  of  our 
great  prose-writers  of  the  century  have  occasion- 
ally fallen  into  "  bombast  "  or  "fustian,"  turgidity 
or  elaborate  self-consciousness ;  and,  if  not  too 
"  precious,"  have  now  and  then  been  in  danger  of 
descending  to  "  limelights  and  coloured  lenses  "  ; 
or,  avoiding  the  jerkiness  of  the  great  novelist 
whom  he  wittily  names  as  "a  prose  Browning/' 
and  following  Matthew  Arnold  when  he  bade  them 
"  flee  Carlylese  as  the  very  devil,"  have,  in  the  good 
company  of  "  Culture  itself,"  fallen  into  "  the  trap 
in  the  very  act  of  warning  others/*  On  the  other 
hand,  he  praises  the  "  pure,  natural,  and  most 
articulate  prose,"  of  a  conventional  yet  popular 
writer  who  was  a  friend  of  his  own,  and  there- 
by unwittingly  lays  his  finger  on  one  secondary 
excellence  of  the  novel  before  us. 

"  Romance,"  he  says,  "finding  little  of  romance 
in  the  real  world,  has  taken  two  different  lines  in 
the  desperate  effort  to  amuse  us  somehow.  The 
virtuous  line  is  the  phonographic  reproduction  of 
everyday  life  in  ordinary  situations.  The  dis- 
reputable line  is  Zolaesque  bestiality,  and  forced, 
unreal,  unlovely,  and  hysterical  sensationalism." 
Both  these  dangers  has  "John  Halifax"  escaped 
in  the  region  of  that  "  social  romance  "  which  the 
same  writer  describes  as  "  the  true  poetic  function 
of  women."  The  book  has  sometimes  been  claimed 
as  the  precursor  and  antetype  of  the  ordinary 
middle-class  novel,  of  which  it  was  supposed  to  set 


OF 

the  fashion.  But  it  was  hardly  a  novel  at  all  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  It  was  a  romance, 
at  once  homely  and  "  poetic  "  ;  and  that  fact  may 
suggest  some  of  its  most  obvious  deficiencies  and 
many  of  its  most  striking  merits. 

"  It  is  felt  on  all  sides,"  says  Maeterlinck,  "  that 
the  conditions  of  workaday  life  are  changing,  and 
the  youngest  of  us  already  differ  entirely  in  speech 
and  action  from  the  men  of  the  preceding  gene- 
ration. A  mass  of  useless  conventions,  habits, 
pretences,  and  intermediaries,  are  being  swept  into 
the  gulf"  ;  and  it  may  be  fairly  added  that  among 
the  unseen  forces  making  in  that  direction  has 
been  the  far-reaching  influence  of  this  modest  and 
humane  story  of  John  Halifax  the  tanner,  a  study 
from  the  life,  in  which  Christianity  stands  sponsor 
for  the  finest  breeding,  and  claims  as  its  own  for 
ever  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  work. 

The  author  "  believed,"  writes  a  sympathetic 
critic,  "  in  the  nobility  of  man  as  man,  and  looked 
upon  condition,  circumstance,  or  birth,  as  an  acci- 
dent which  ought  not  to  determine  his  ultimate 
position.  Her  ideal  man,  John  Halifax,  carried 
about  with  him  an  old  Greek  Testament,  in  which, 
after  the  name  of  an  ancestor,  was  the  inscription 
'  Gentleman.'  Such  a  charter  she  held  to  be  the 
inalienable  possession  of  every  human  being." 

Another  friend  of  Miss  Mulock,  who  is  at  once 
a  man  of  letters  and  a  man  of  affairs,  said  lately  in 
speaking  of  her  :  "  I  once  asked  an  American  why 
his  people  thought  so  much  of  President  Grant, 
since  his  democratic  ideals,  excellent  though  they 
might  be,  were,  after  all,  shared  by  thousands  of 
188 


his  fellow-countrymen.  *That  may  all  be  true,' 
was  the  reply.  '  But  he  was  the  first  to  figure  it 
out  ! '  Well,"  he  continued,  "  of  the  author  of 
6  John  Halifax '  it  may  be  said,  '  She  was  the  first 
to  figure  out  that  ideal  of  manhood  and  of  chivalry 
before  which  the  most  inveterate  class-prejudice 
hid  its  silly  face  and  was  ashamed.' ' 

The  social  order  is  constantly  falling  out  of  tune  : 
she  struck  a  true  note  which  others  were  quick 
to  perceive  and  take  up.  She  struck  the  note ;  but 
it  may  be  added  that  it  was  characteristic  of  her 
admirable  reticence  that,  having  once  struck  it, 
she  never  forced  or  overlaboured  it.  Nor  is  she 
responsible  for  every  flat  street-melody  which  gives 
a  false  rendering  of  the  new  harmony. 

If  I  may  rephrase  and  intermingle  thoughts 
finely  put  by  both  the  writers  already  quoted, 
at  the  same  time  venturing  to  add  a  sequence  or 
two  of  resulting  choice  and  amplification  ;  the 
tree  of  life  is  of  a  unity  so  complex  and  incessant 
that  its  most  effulgent  blossoming,  though  attri- 
buted perhaps  only  to  the  few,  is  in  reality  put 
forth  by  its  soul  as  what  Maeterlinck  has  called 
the  "  Flower  of  the  multitude  "  ;  so  that,  even  in 
this  more  actual  "  fraternity,"  which  bears  the 
deepening  hue  of  our  own  century,  it  may  be 
difficult  to  disentwine  cause  and  effect,  or  to  say 
from  which  particular  bough  of  Igdrasil  the  pollen 
was  first  wafted  that  touched  the  heart  and  petals 
of  every  corolla  with  a  new  and  more  heavenly 
colour.  So  little  is  this  a  question  of  mere 
intellect,  or  eloquence,  or  solitary  power,  that  we 
find  the  same  fragrant  promise  of  advancing  per- 

189 


OF 

fectibility  in  such  divergent  names  and  utterances 
as  those  of  Wordsworth  and  Walt  Whitman, 
Carlyle  and  Pater,  Ruskin  and  George  Meredith  ; 
in  the  arch-destroyer  of"  Bumbledom  who  wrote 
"  Oliver  Twist,"  and  the  writer  of  "  The  New- 
comes  "  and  of  "  The  Book  of  Snobs  "  ;  in  Swin- 
burne's "Songs  before  Sunrise"  and  Christina 
Rossetti's  "  Royal  Princess,"  Thomas  Hardy's 
"  Gabriel  Oak,"  George  Gissing's  "  Thyrza  "  and 
Miss  Thackeray's  "  Reine "  ;  in  the  poets  of 
"The  Earthly  Paradise"  and  "The  Burden  of 
Nineveh,"  and  in  that  most  Christian  poet  who 
gave  us  the  divine  Pompilia,  the  child  of  the 
gutter.  We  find  it  in  Keble,  who  touched  with 
immortal  grace  "  the  trivial  round,  the  common 
task,''  and  in  Rudyard  Kipling,  who  has  written 
of  all  tasks,  national  and  individual,  a  consecration 
earnest,  versatile,  and  actual.  It  is  as  truly  pre- 
sent in  the  "  Ecce  Homo"  of  Professor  Seeley 
as  in  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  "Portraits  and 
Memories."  And  it  is  strikingly  incarnate  in  the 
early  novels  of  Mrs.  Gaskeil,  in  the  songs  and 
social  romances  of  "  Parson  Lot,"  in  the  demo- 
cratic hexameters  and  the  satirical  "  New  Deca- 
logue" of  that  Thyrsis  who  was  commemorated 
by  the  scourger  of  the  Philistine  ;  and — for  there 
is  no  question  of  great  or  little — in  George  Eliot's 
"Adam  Bede,"  in  Tennyson's  "Enoch  Arden," 
and  in  Miss  Mulock's  "John  Halifax."  Nor 
must  it  be  forgotten  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
"John  Halifax"  preceded  that  almost  perfect 
novel,  George  Eliot's  masterpiece.  Before  either 
"  Adam  Bede"  or  "Enoch  Arden"  had  enriched 
190 


an  unimaginative  Church  with  studies  of  those 
very  callings  of  carpenter  and  fisherman  which 
that  Church  had  professed  to  revere  in  her 
Founder  and  chief  Apostle,  while  she  trampled 
and  patronised  them  among  her  own  u  common 
people,"  Miss  Mulock,  in  this  beautiful  and  un- 
affected story  of  one  who,  working  with  his  hands, 
was  also  the  servant  of  a  trade,  had  already 
redeemed,  from  the  accretions  of  the  prim  and 
artificial  eighteenth  century, 

"The  grand  old  name  of  Gentleman." 

There  are  novels,  such  as  Mrs.  Gaskell's  "  Cran- 
ford  "  and  "  Wives  and  Daughters,"  or  Thackeray's 
"  Philip,"  which,  in  a  quite  peculiar  degree,  win 
the  heart  of  the  reader  to  the  man  or  woman  who 
wrote  them.  Such  a  book  is  "John  Halifax." 
It  cannot  boast  the  inimitable  pathos  and  humour 
of  "  Cranford,"  nor  the  mastery  of  the  hand  that 
wrote  "  Philip  "  ;  but  it  has  all  the  qualities  of  its 
defects,  and  perhaps  full  justice  has  never  yet  been 
done  to  that  mingling  of  austerity  and  passion, 
that  single-minded  economy  of  language,  which  of 
themselves  go  far  to  justify  its  extraordinary  and 
lasting  popularity.  It  is  a  fine  and  womanly  bit 
of  work  in  the  best  sense  of  the  words. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  miss  no  essentially 
feminine  grace  except  the  crowning  grace  of 
humour,  that  surpassing  and  Shakespearian  gift 
of  creative  humour  which  has  for  ever  given  to 
George  Eliot  her  pre-eminent  place.  Its  very 
limitations  are  an  intrinsic  part  of  its  success. 
Only  in  work  of  the  very  highest  quality,  such 

191 


OF 

work  as  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  or  the  novels  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  can  the  bizarre  incongruities  and 
ironies  of  life  be  amply  included  without  disturb- 
ing that  sense  of  harmony  and  repose  so  necessary 
to  the  highest  art.  From  "John  Halifax"  it 
may  almost  be  said  that  humour,  in  the  widest 
sense  of  the  word,  is  absent.  The  atmosphere 
being  more  or  less  that  of  romance,  the  elements 
are  few  and  easily  fused ;  and  so  it  comes  to  pass 
that  artistic  unity  is  instinctively  and  lightly 
attained,  without  that  constant  triumph  over 
obstacles  which  is  the  part  of  commanding 
genius.  Its  charm  is  that  of  a  noble  and  single- 
minded  sincerity,  and  of  that  untutored  poetry 
which,  never  seeking  to  pass  its  boundaries  or  to 
strain  after  effect,  has  its  own  distinction  of  fine 
and  simple  phrasing,  and  achieves  what  more 
complicated  and  ambitious  efforts  could  not  have 
touched.  It  is  a  pastel  sketch  in  which  the  colours 
are  translucent  and  delicate,  rather  than  an  elabo- 
rate oil-painting  on  a  crowded  canvas. 

Yet  it  is  significant  that  Miss  Mulock,  who  as 
a  rule  wrote  with  extreme  ease  and  rapidity  what 
met  the  need  of  the  moment,  and,  having  fulfilled 
its  purpose,  may  be  forgotten,  spent  much  more 
than  her  usual  pains  over  this  the  most  enduring 
of  her  novels,  and  was  content  to  write  and  re- 
write again  and  again,  rather  than  risk  a  blurred 
or  imperfect  impression  of  the  truth  which  she 
desired  to  make  concrete.  Possibly  this  may 
have  been  one  reason,  among  others,  why  "John 
Halifax "  was  always  her  own  favourite  among 
her  books.  Dr.  Garnett  has  spoken  of  it  as  "  a 
192 


very  noble  presentation  of  the  highest  ideal  of 
English  middle-class  life,"  and  that  ideal  has  since 
entered  so  closely  into  the  very  warp  and  woof 
of  customary  thought  and  action  that  its  truths 
sometimes  seem  to  us  to  have  become  truisms. 
It  has  doubtless  done  its  work  the  more  inwardly 
and  irrevocably,  because  it  was  singularly  free 
from  the  one-sided  cant  that  sometimes  flaunts 
itself  under  a  democratic  name.  Miss  Mulock 
evidently  agreed  with  Clough  that  many  men  and 
women  of  lowly  birth,  and  yet  more  lowly  calling, 
are  sometimes  the  very  "  poets  of  courtesy,"  yet 
she  made  Phineas  Fletcher  admit,  with  her  evident 
approval,  what  a  writer  merely  playing  to  the 
gallery  would  have  been  careful  to  ignore,  though 
it  is  a  fact  in  which  lies  much  of  the  deepest 
pathos  of  poverty's  daily  restrictions.  "  My 
father,"  said  Phineas,  "  tanner  as  he  was,  and 
pertinaciously  jealous  of  the  dignity  of  trade,  yet 
held  strongly  the  common-sense  doctrine  of  the 
advantages  of  good  descent ;  at  least,  in  degree. 
For  since  it  is  a  law  of  nature,  admitting  only 
rare  exceptions,  that  the  qualities  of  the  ancestors 
should  be  transmitted  to  the  race,  the  fact  seems 
patent  enough,  that  even  allowing  equal  advan- 
tages, a  gentleman's  son  has  more  chances  of 
growing  up  a  gentleman  than  the  son  of  a 
working  man." 

Phineas  was  right  when  he  said  "  common- 
sense  "  ;  a  certain  sweet  reasonableness  and  sound 
common  sense  were  especially  characteristic  of  the 
author  of  this  book.  But  to  say  that,  is  not  by 
any  means  to  account  entirely  for  its  popularity 

N  193 


OF 

and  staying  power.  For  may  not  as  much  be 
said  of  many  kindly  souls  who  have  written  only 
platitudes,  and  have  quickly  wearied  their  audi- 
ence ?  What  then  was  the  real  reason  why  its 
success  was  so  rapid  and  so  lasting  ?  If  it  be  said 
that  the  true  explanation  is  twofold,  and  lies  as 
much  in  the  terse  poetic  directness  of  expression 
as  in  the  power  of  the  elemental  truth  expressed, 
it  may  well  be  answered  that  such  a  twofold 
answer  is  essentially  one,  since  it  is  a  common- 
place, as  true  as  it  is  trite,  that  language,  if  it  be 
not  self-condemning  in  affectation,  is  always  shaped 
by  that  which  lies  beneath  it ;  and  indeed  the 
exception  is  no  exception,  but  only  the  most 
glaring  example  of  all,  for  who  would  not  suspect  a 
pose  under  the  garb  of  an  attitudinising  verbiage  ? 
There  is  in  "John  Halifax"  no  such  histrionic 
posing,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  singular  unity  of 
form  and  feeling.  The  appreciation  of  motive 
and  of  style,  therefore,  in  this  instance  necessarily 
intermingle,  though  they  must,  in  this  as  in  every 
careful  analysis,  be  momentarily  disentangled. 

Without  going  so  far  as  one  recent  critic,  who 
has  even  ventured  to  hint  that  the  book  might  be 
placed  in  the  same  category  with  the  "  Imitation  " 
of  Thomas  a  Kempis  and  "The  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress "  of  John  Bunyan,  it  may  at  least  be  near 
the  truth  to  maintain  that  it  endures  by  reason 
of  something  more  vital  than  mere  choice  and 
mastery  of  words. 

It  accords  with  the  fashion  of  our  age  to  deny 
that  there  is  any  reality  above  or  beyond  literature  ; 
but  literature  is  the  fruit  of  that  covenanted  effort, 
194 


which,  though  a  part  of  the  world's  testament, 
is  not  of  itself  the  immortal  heritage  testified. 
Sincerity  and  inevitableness  give  distinction  to  any 
writing  destined  to  live  upon  that  record ;  and 
that  this  charming  idyll  of  the  tanner's  apprentice 
does  bear  the  essential  sign-manual  can  hardly  be 
doubted,  except  by  a  criticism  so  shallow  and 
supercilious  as  to  overreach  its  own  justification. 

Its  outward  presentment  has  a  certain  classic 
grace  of  unadorned  plainness,  not  deficient  either 
in  force  or  in  sweetness,  but  the  secret  of  its 
immediate  welcome  and  lasting  charm  lies  in  the 
soul  of  the  book,  and  is  of  its  very  substance. 
It  answers  to  those  deepest  needs  of  the  human 
heart  which  are  the  same  everywhere  and  always. 
It  is  a  response  to  the  question  asked  anew  with 
fuller  and  deeper  meaning  in  each  succeeding 
generation :  "  How  can  I  so  obey  the  Master 
as  to  live  the  eternal  life  of  Love  and  Beauty, 
amid  all  the  thwarting  elements  of  time  and  space 
and  mortality,  and  find  in  the  divine  brotherhood 
of  all  men  a  daily  fact  which  shall  transfigure  the 
lowliest  labour  to  the  highest  poetry,  and  shine 
through  the  darkest  grief  with  illuminating  joy  ?  " 

Here  we  touch  the  very  heart  of  the  world's 
debt  to  the  author  of  "John  Halifax,"  and, 
through  her,  to  one  in  whose  teaching  she,  like 
Kingsley,  delighted,  one  who,  through  his  deep 
influence  on  a  chosen  few,  is  influencing  an  ever- 
widening  multitude,  and  whose  faith  was  as  child- 
like and  practical  as  it  was  mystic  and  scholarly 
— that  most  catholic  and  chivalrous  of  prophets, 
Frederick  Denison  Maurice,  among  whose  disciples 

195 


OF 

in  Vere  Street  and  Lincoln's  Inn  Miss  Mulock 
was  frequently  to  be  found. 

But  the  story  of  John  Halifax  is  very  far  indeed 
from  being  merely  didactic,  It  is  as  remarkable 
for  its  simple  passion  as  for  the  sanity  and  delicate 
courage  of  its  high  and  pure  ideal. 

From  this  verdict  many  will  dissent.  Much  of 
the  criticism  of  to-day  is  so  eager  to  be  "  modern  " 
that  it  makes  the  word  "  passion  " — a  word  of 
high  tradition  and  noble  usage — a  mere  synonym 
for  corruption  and  lawlessness ;  but  such  a  view 
may  almost  be  said  to  be  Puritanism  turned  inside 
out,  and  as  narrow  as  the  bigotry  which  mistakes 
coldness  for  innocence  and  confounds  negation 
with  divinity. 

That  emotion,  the  most  profound  and  vital  and 
enduring,  is  also  the  simplest  and  the  most  reticent, 
and  that  the  silent  Cordelia  thrills  to  an  intense 
and  heartrending  tragedy,  of  which  slighter  and 
more  voluble  natures  are  incapable,  may  or  may 
not  be  true ;  but  classic  art  has  always  leaned  in 
the  direction  of  that  belief,  and  to  the  faith  that 
such  feeling  is  at  once  strong  enough  for  renun- 
ciation and  vivid  enough  to  strike  the  chords  of 
passion  and  of  deathless  hope. 

There  is  a  notable  passage  in  "  Modern  Painters'* 
in  which  Ruskin  expounds  that  quality  of  chastened 
art  which  touches  the  highest  possibility  of  our 
nature  by  a  note  of  temperate  self-restraint,  im- 
plying an  infinite  reserve  of  power  and  a  rigor- 
ous choice  of  expression.  He  reminds  us  that  it 
is  perhaps  akin  to  that  hint  of  a  divine  refraining 
from  any  monotony  of  splendour  or  reckless  and 
196 


unvaried  gorgeousness,  whereby  the  lily-of-the- 
valley  may  exceed  in  exquisite  loveliness  many 
flowers  more  exuberant  in  their  blossoming  and 
more  magnificent  in  their  tints. 

And  that  the  absence  of  complexity  and  of  much 
very  vivid  dramatic  colour  was  in  "  John  Halifax  " 
more  or  less  deliberate,  becomes  strikingly  evident 
to  any  one  who  has  any  acquaintance  with  the 
somewhat  florid  style  of  Miss  Mulock's  previous 
novel,  "The  Ogilvies,"  published  by  Messrs. 
Smith  and  Elder  in  1849,  and  among  the  most 
successful  of  her  previous  stories.  The  latter, 
though  full  of  warmth  and  vigour,  is  as  rhetorical 
as  it  is  earnest,  and  even  somewhat  girlish  in  the 
unchecked  ardour  of  its  rhapsodies  and  the  appeals 
to  Heaven  and  to  the  reader  in  its  unreserved 
soliloquising.  Interesting  it  undoubtedly  is,  and 
to  readers  of  "John  Halifax"  especially  interest- 
ing ;  for  it  shows  clearly  that  already  the  central 
idea  of  the  later  novel  was  unconsciously  shaping 
itself  in  the  mind  of  the  writer,  as,  for  instance, 
when  she  speaks  of  Mr.  Frederick  Pennythorne  as 
"  too  ordinary  and  vulgar-minded  for  a  gentleman, 
and  far — oh,  far — too  mean  in  heart  and  soul  for 
the  noble  title  of  a  man."  But  the  advance  made 
in  the  book  by  which  she  is  mainly  remembered, 
and  with  which  we  are  chiefly  concerned,  is  little 
short  of  amazing ;  and  it  is  an  advance  almost 
entirely  in  the  direction  of  self-restraint  and 
brevity. 

It  is  just  another  instance  of  what  Pater  long 
ago  insisted  upon,  the  fact  that  beauty  of  style  is 
simply  the  outcome  of  beauty  in  the  thought 

197 


OF 

to  be  expressed,  such  as  includes  high-minded 
veracity,  and  a  literary  conscience  pledged  to  regard 
no  scruple  as  too  minute  for  consideration  and  no 
faintest  shade  of  difference  as  unimportant,  in  the 
service  of  a  many-sided  truth.  Tawdry  language 
or  reckless  elaboration  would  have  been  peculiarly 
out  of  place  in  a  literary  venture  which  aimed  at 
the  expression  of  a  truth  at  once  primitive  and 
fundamental.  In  claiming  integrity  for  commerce, 
and  dignity  for  manual  labour,  it  was  a  wise  in- 
stinct that  opposed  itself  to  all  the  facile  wordiness 
of  the  typical  demagogue. 

So  quietly  and  successfully  has  the  book  done  its 
work  in  the  forty-two  years  which  have  elapsed 
since  publication,  that  we  at  this  day  fail  to  realise 
the  strength  of  illogical  and  social  prejudice  which 
in  the  preceding  century  so  successfully  ostracised 
every  form  of  trade.  Jane  Austen,  who  preceded 
Miss  Mulock  by  more  than  one  generation,  has 
given  us  a  vivid  and  convincing  picture  of  the 
society  in  which  she  moved.  Her  creations  are 
real  men  and  women,  and  they  are  always  either 
amusing  or  interesting,  but,  whether  they  be  as 
silly  and  vulgar  as  Mrs.  Bennet,  or  as  sensible  and 
well-bred  as  the  clear-headed  and  warm-hearted 
Elizabeth,  they  all  of  them  play  their  cards  in  polite 
drawing-rooms  to  which  the  Apostle  Peter  himself 
would  never  have  been  admitted  as  an  equal  guest 
if  he  had  happened  to  carry  a  few  nets  over  his  arm, 
and  where  the  angel  who  took  the  place  of  Theocrite 
might  for  hours  have  knocked  vainly  for  admission 
if  he  had  chanced  to  be  seen  mending  shoes  or 
standing  behind  the  counter. 
198 


VICTOR A3^  ^OFSL 

Perhaps,  to  speak  the  whole  truth,  our  appre- 
ciation of  Jane  Austen's  admirable  workmanship 
and  delightful  personality  is  so  devout,  and  we 
love  her  Anne  Elliot,  her  Elizabeth  Bennet,  and 
her  Emma  par  excellence^  with  so  tender  a  regard, 
she  is  herself  at  once  so  human  and  so  refined,  so 
sensible  and  so  high-minded,  that  we  shrink  with 
an  unconfessed  cowardice  from  noting  the  limi- 
tations of  her  horizon.  In  dramatic  skill  and 
verisimilitude  Miss  Mulock  cannot  for  a  moment 
compete  with  her ;  but,  though  Jane  Austen  was 
so  good  and  sweet  a  woman,  in  spiritual  imagina- 
tation  she  stands  easily  surpassed  ;  and  it  may  even 
be  doubted  whether  the  excessive  adulation  that  is 
sometimes  bestowed  upon  her  may  not  be  partly 
the  effect  of  our  decadent  fashion  of  regarding  a 
too  definite  idealism  as  priggish  and  obsolete. 
The  patronising  air  with  which  "John  Halifax" 
is  handed  over  to  Sunday  schools  does  probably, 
unconsciously,  owe  something  of  its  supercilious- 
ness to  the  influence  of  a  literary  clique,  by  whom 
an  anarchical  pessimism  is  regarded  as  the  hall- 
mark of  culture,  and  a  too  definite  Christianity  is 
treated  as  the  last  resort  of  fools. 

When  this  time  of  transition  has  passed,  it  is 
possible  that  a  more  impartial  justice  will  be  done 
to  the  precision  and  beauty  of  language  which 
mark  the  opening  chapters  of  this  fascinating 
story.  Here  and  there  the  conversations  are 
touched  perhaps  with  a  certain  quaint  bookishness 
of  which  Ibsen  has  excellently  rid  the  plays  and 
novels  of  our  own  time,  but  that  was  an  occasional 
characteristic  which  the  writer  shared  with  almost 

199 


s  OF 

all  her  contemporaries,  and  even  Ethel  Newcome 
now  and  then  "  talked  like  a  book  "  ;  nor  can  it 
be  contended  even  to-day  that  we  all  scatter  bril- 
liant aphorisms  in  our  ordinary  talk  quite  so 
frequently  as  the  men  and  women  in  George 
Meredith's  romances.  But  this  slightly  self- 
conscious  correctness  of  conversation,  though  at 
the  very  opposite  extreme  from  the  epigrams  of 
"  The  Egoist  "  or  of  "  Diana,"  is  not  a  very  serious 
fault,  if  it  be  indeed  the  worst  that  can  be  urged. 
Though  no  one  can  accord  to  the  second  half  of 
the  story  the  same  degree  of  admiration  that  is 
given  to  the  first,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the 
achievement  at  which  it  aimed  was  one  of  peculiar 
difficulty.  To  express  the  beauty  of  Christianity 
through  all  the  complexities  of  social  and  of 
family  life,  and,  with  all  the  details  of  an  ordered 
domesticity,  to  draw  the  ideal  husband  and  father 
and  citizen  without  ever  missing  the  note  of 
reality,  on  the  one  hand,  or  the  canons  of  an 
exacting  art  upon  the  other,  was  a  task  that  might 
well  tax  such  commanding  genius  as  Mrs.  Craik's 
best  friends  have  never  claimed  for  her.  The 
second  part  of  "  John  Halifax  "  has  not  the  ex- 
quisite charm  which  in  "  Marius  the  Epicurean, " 
for  instance,  irradiates  every  detail  of  life  with  a 
beauty  which  is  of  itself  a  note  of  disciplined 
idealism,  and  should  be  an  especial  note  of  Chris- 
tianity, but  it  may  well  be  borne  in  mind  that  "John 
Halifax  "  has  entered  deeply  into  the  life  and  work 
of  innumerable  men  and  women  who  would  have 
turned  with  impatience  from  a  single  page  of 
Walter  Pater.  How  wide  and  incalculable  its 
200 


influence  has  been  is  suggested  by  the  fact  that 
Americans  who  in  visiting  England  make  their  first 
pilgrimage  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  often  make  their 
second  to  the  home  of  John  Halifax  at  Tewkesbury. 

Mrs.  Craik's  own  birthplace  of  Stoke-upon- 
Trent  was  a  much  less  delightful  town.  It  is  in 
the  heart  of  the  "Potteries"--"  the  Black  Country  " 
as  it  has  sometimes  been  called,  though  it  may 
have  been  a  little  less  black  perhaps  in  those  early 
days  of  the  century  than  in  these.  This  so-called 
"  Black  Country,"  however,  which  kindles  grim 
imaginings  by  its  great  furnaces,  where  the  kilns 
spit  flames  upon  the  darkness,  has  here  and  there 
many  fine  bits  of  country,  where  wildflowers 
grow  lavishly  in  the  intervening  oases  amid  the 
monotonous  desolation. 

Stoke  is  not  very  far  from  the  beautiful  grounds 
of  Trentham  Hall,  where  such  a  practical  and 
necessary  protest  has  been  made  against  the 
murderous  and  crippling  lead-poisoning  of  the 
neighbourhood ;  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  with 
a  good  sense  worthy  of  John  Halifax  himself, 
having  led  the  movement  in  favour  of  earthenware 
manufactured  without  the  poisonous  glaze  which 
has  hitherto  been  eating  into  the  brain-power  and 
nerve-power  of  the  poor  blinded  pottery  folk. 
When  "  John  Halifax  "  was  written,  this  injury  to 
health  and  life  had  not  yet  been  laid  bare  by  the 
advance  of  medical  knowledge,  nor  had  purchasers 
— to  say  nothingof  employers  of  labour — awakened 
to  a  sense  of  their  responsibility  in  such  matters. 

It  was  eleven  years  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
and  six  years  before  the  passing  of  the  Reform 

201 


OF 

Bill,  before  Chartism  had  yet  been  heard  of,  when 
hardly  a  decade  had  passed  since  Miss  Austen's 
death,  and  when  Queen  Victoria  and  George  Eliot 
were  both  little  girls  of  seven  years  old,  Charlotte 
Bronte  a  child  of  ten,  and  Thackeray  a  boy  of 
fifteen,  that,  in  the  little  town  of  Stoke-upon- 
Trent,  in  the  home  of  an  obscure  and  somewhat 
eccentric  minister  named  Thomas  Mulock,  the 
heart  of  a  burdened  and  sorrowful  wife  was  cheered 
by  the  coming  of  a  daughter,  a  little  brown-haired, 
grey-eyed  daughter,  who  was  named  Dinah. 
Thomas  Mulock  was  a  man  of  considerable  gifts 
and  literary  attainments,  and  he  wrote  and  preached 
with  effect,  but  he  had  little  idea  of  providing  for 
those  of  his  own  house.  His  daughter  grew  up 
to  be  her  mother's  dauntless  and  tender  protector, 
at  once  nurse  and  breadwinner,  and  finally  carried 
that  mother  off,  with  her  two  boys,  to  make  a  new 
home  for  her  in  London,  where  she  faced  honest 
poverty  with  the  pride  and  silence  of  the  true 
"  gentylnesse ''  and  the  high-spirited  courage  which 
perhaps  came  to  Dinah  Mulock  as  a  part  of  the 
maternal  heritage.  It  will  be  noted  that  the 
writer  who  claimed  for  the  tanner's  apprentice  a 
refinement  above  all  charlatanry,  and  pictured  him 
as  the  nobler  for  his  honest  trade,  and  as  finding 
his  highest  opportunities  in  the  calling  which  was 
his  hardest  daily  sacrifice,  could  make  her  protest 
with  the  better  grace  from  the  fact  that  she  her- 
self had  never  come  under  the  silly  coldness,  or 
vulgar  patronage,  with  which  it  was  in  those  days 
too  much  the  fashion  to  alienate  mercantile 
pursuits. 

202 


Mrs.  Craik,  then  Dinah  Mulock,  seems  to 
belong  so  entirely  to  our  own  time  that  we  are 
a  little  apt  to  forget,  perhaps,  how  different  was 
the  England  of  her  childhood  from  the  England 
of  to-day. 

She  was  already  four  years  old  before  any  rail- 
way had  yet  cut  into  the  heart  of  the  leafy  green 
country  or  defiled  that  valley  of  the  silver  Trent 
in  which  lay  her  home,  and  the  canals  which 
intersected  Stoke  must  have  been  the  scene  of 
much  peaceful  coming  and  going  of  heavily  laden 
barges.  She  was  only  two  or  three  years  old  when, 
in  two  succeeding  years,  the  Test  and  Corporation 
Acts  and  Roman  Catholic  disabilities  were  repealed. 
These  were  the  days  of  Daniel  O'Connell's  agita- 
tion for  the  repeal  of  the  Union;  and  the  passing 
of  the  Reform  Bill,  the  Abolition  of  Slavery,  and 
the  new  Poor  Law,  all  came  soon  afterwards  in 
rapid  succession,  before  Dinah  was  nine  years 
old,  and  probably  were  of  more  influence  on  her 
environment  than  the  accession  of  William  IV., 
in  1830,  when  she  was  still  a  very  little  child,  or 
even  the  opening  of  the  first  railway  in  the  same 
year.  She  was  thirteen  when  the  penny  post  was 
introduced,  and  still  a  girl  of  twenty  when  in  the 
year  of  the  Irish  Famine  the  Corn  Laws  were 
abolished.  Eleven  years  later  came  the  horror  of 
the  Indian  Mutiny,  close  upon  the  heels  of  the 
Crimean  War ;  and  she  lived  through  the  ferment 
of  the  second  and  third  Reform  Bills,  the  passing 
of  the  Education  Act,  the  Abolition  of  the 
University  Tests,  and  the  proposal  for  Home 
Rule  made  by  Mr.  Gladstone, — in  a  word,  it  may 

203 


OF 

be  said  that,  with  the  one  important  exception  of 
the  French  Revolution,  her  life  was  touched  by 
almost  all  that  was  most  eventful  in  that  eventful 
century,  that  Victorian  Age  which  has  been 
summed  up  as  "the  age  of  sociology."  Her  own 
life  was  not  uneventful,  and  not  wanting  in  the 
practical  poetry  which  is  better  than  mere  romance; 
but  it  can  only  be  given  in  barest  outline,  for  she 
held  that  the  world  at  large  had  no  right  to  cross 
the  threshold  of  a  woman's  home  for  any  other 
reason  than  that  of  personal  friendship,  and  that 
gratitude  for  her  writing,  if  she  happen  to  be  a 
writer,  is  best  shown  by  respecting  the  modesty 
of  her  reserve.  To  quote  words  lately  spoken 
by  one  who  knew  her  intimately :  "  There  never 
was  a  more  tender  or  domestic  nature,  or  one  that 
would  shrink  more  from  anything  like  '  making  a 
life  of  her.' '  And  perhaps  at  this  point  it  may 
be  permissible  to  add  the  dictum  of  her  friend 
Dr.  Garnett,  who  wrote  in  the  "  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography" :  "  She  was  not  a  genius,  and 
she  does  not  express  the  ideals  and  aspirations  of 
women  of  exceptional  genius  :  but  the  tender  and 
philanthropic,  and  at  the  same  time  energetic  and 
practical,  womanhood  of  ordinary  life  has  never 
had  a  more  sufficient  representative." 

To  those  who  know  the  difficulty  of  such  a 
career,  it  is  amazing  to  think  of  a  simple,  untried 
girl  as  coming  up  from  the  country  to  London 
with  three  others  dependent  on  her  pen  (her  mother 
and  two  young  brothers),  and  facing  the  world 
for  them  without  any  assured  income,  though  one 
of  the  three  was  an  invalid  and  needing  special  care. 
204 


But  from  the  first  she  wrote  easily  and  rapidly, 
and  working  not  for  fame  but  in  the  determination 
to  bear  her  own  burden  and  the  burden  of  those 
she  cared  for,  she  won  the  reputation  for  which 
there  had  been  no  petty  struggle  or  selfish  striving  ; 
and  from  a  single-minded  desire  to  deliver  her  own 
earnest  and  unaffected  message,  she  achieved  a  much 
wider  and  more  lasting  recognition  than  many  who 
have  aimed  at  distinction  and  toiled  for  immortality. 
Mrs.  Oliphant,  who  was  her  friend  and  con- 
temporary, tells  how  Miss  Mulock  was  only 
twenty-three  at  the  time  of  her  first  important 
publication,  and  how  it  was  long  before  that  age 
that  her  independent  career  had  begun,  and  that, 
having  rescued  the  frail  mother  from  the  father 
"  of  brilliant  attainments,"  she  had,  as  by  a  miracle, 
in  the  great  desert  of  London,  managed  to  keep 
the  little  household  going,  through  magazine  work 
of  various  kinds,  from  the  fashion-books  upwards. 
Another  lifelong  friend  has  whispered  to  the 
writer  of  this  article  that  the  bread  she  was  able 
to  win  for  them  all  at  first  was  sometimes,  very 
literally,  only  bread.  Perhaps  that  was  one  reason 
why  later  in  life,  when  after  her  marriage  she  had 
her  own  spacious  home  and  sufficent  wealth,  in  all 
her  delicate  generosities  and  endless  piottings  for 
the  pleasure  of  those  less  rich  than  herself,  she 
always  knew  just  where  the  poverty  pinched,  and 
used  her  carriage  for  the  very  people  who  needed 
it  most ;  to  the  last  using  an  omnibus  for  herself, 
whenever  that  was  possible,  that  she  might  the 
oftener  have  the  luxury  of  choosing  for  more 
ailing  people  more  luxurious  chariots. 

205 


OF 

Through  all  her  life  her  generous  kindness  knew 
no  bounds,  and  often  was  the  more  touching  from 
the  fact  that  it  was  not  the  careless  giving  of  the 
spendthrift  but  the  hard-won  privilege  of  economy, 
foresight,  self-denial.  Like  Mrs.  Ewing's  Madam 
Liberality,  she  hoarded  the  plums  in  her  cake  for 
other  people,  and  managed  her  affairs  with  order 
and  precision  that  she  might  never  be  hampered 
by  sordid  anxiety  or  petty  selfishness. 

Through  a  wise  carefulness,  she  attained  more 
and  more  to  what  has  been  called  <c  the  higher 
carelessness,"  and,  in  her  later  years  in  the  midst 
of  a  methodically  managed  household  which  owed 
its  smoothness  and  comfort  to  her  forethought, 
never  suffered  herself  to  be  fretted  by  trivial 
worries  or  unforeseen  details. 

She  was  an  excellent  woman  of  business,  and  it 
is  interesting  to  learn,  from  the  friends  of  her  youth, 
that  these  gifts  of  exactness  and  order  and  method 
were  developed  gradually  as  life  went  on,  and  that 
the  very  people  who  testified  to  them  would,  in 
her  girlhood,  have  described  her  as  somewhat 
"  happy-go-lucky." 

Her  memories  of  her  earliest  home  made  any 
form  of  debt  seem  to  her  the  one  impossible  in- 
dignity, and  in  her  resolute  unflinching  avoidance 
of  it,  through  the  first  years  of  struggle  for  those 
she  loved,  she  attained  the  new  powers  and  faculties 
which  eased  the  strain  of  existence,  and  the  ad- 
mirable poise  and  harmony  of  her  life  lent  itself 
more  and  more  to  all  that  surrounds  a  woman 
with  beauty  and  with  peace. 

But  to  go  back  for  a  moment  to  the  days  when 
206 


Mrs.  Oliphant  describes  her  as  a  "  young  heroic 
creature  writing  her  pretty  juvenile  nonsense  of 
love  and  lovers,  in  swift,  unformed  style,  as  fast 
as  the  pen  could  fly,  to  get  bread  for  the  boys 
and  a  little  soup  and  wine  for  the  invalid  over 
whose  deathbed  she  watched  with  impassioned  love 
and  care — a  tragic,  tender  picture,  to  be  associated 
by  ever  so  distant  a  link  with  inane  magazines  of 
the  fashions  and  short-lived  periodicals  unknown 
to  fame."  * 

She  lived  then  in  Mornington  Crescent,  in  the 
north  of  London,  towards  Camden  Town,  until, 
after  her  success  as  an  author  was  assured,  she 
moved  to  Wildwood,  a  cottage  at  North  End,  on 
the  Golder's  Hill  side  of  Hampstead. 

She  was  surrounded  by  friends,  and  one  who 
had  known  her  from  the  time  when  she  was  herself 
a  girl  of  fifteen,  Miss  Mulock  being  a  year  or  two 
older,  has  pretended  a  little  playful  resentment  at 
what,  to  her  thinking,  was  not  quite  accurate  in 
some  of  Mrs.  Oliphant's  allusions  to  the  "  bevy  of 
attendant  maidens  "  who  seemed  to  make  a  kind  of 
guard  of  honour  about  her.  ' c  Many  friends  indeed 
she  had,"  says  this  old  friend,  "  but  the  friendship 
was  in  many  cases  an  equal  one,  '  the  true  reci- 
procity,' implying  no  patronising  airs  on  the  one 
hand,  no  excessive  dependence  on  the  other." 
And  then  she  went  on  to  say  that,  at  the  time 
when  "John  Halifax"  was  being  written,  she  and 
another  of  these  old  comrades,  no  longer  then 
in  their  first  girlhood,  were  at  that  time  sharing 
a  home  with  Miss  Mulock,  and  teased  and  criticised 
*  Macmillan's  Magazine,  December  1887. 

207 


OF 

her  and  "her  dear  John"  most  unmercifully  as 
the  "  proofs"  of  the  book  came  in,  themselves 
helping  with  the  corrections.  No  one  knew  then, 
of  course,  whether  it  would  succeed  or  not. 

But  what  does  seem  to  have  been  true  in  Mrs. 
Oliphant's  picture,  and  what,  after  all,  dwells  most 
happily  in  the  reader's  mind,  is  that  it  was  of  the 
"  talents  and  accomplishments  "  "  of  other  am- 
bitious and  admiring  girls  "  that  "  Miss  Mulock 
had  always  tales  to  tell,  with  an  enthusiasm  not 
excited  by  any  success  of  her  own."  She  was 
always  a  centre  of  sympathy,  of  help,  and  of 
counsel.  And  while  her  own  talk  was  so  full  of 
the  charms  and  interests  of  others,  Dr.  Garnett 
tells  how  charming  she  was  herself,  and  how 
her  "  simple  cordiality,  staunch  friendliness,  and 
thorough  goodness  of  heart  perfected  the  fas- 
cination." The  sweetness  of  her  singing  was  a 
great  pleasure  to  her  friends,  and  her  voice  lasted 
well.  She  was  of  the  musical  temperament,  and 
delighted  in  the  best  music,  but  the  circumstances 
of  her  life  had  prevented  her  from  gaining  the 
accomplishment  of  finished  playing.  More  than 
one  of  her  friends  has  noted  that  she  had  that 
"  taking "  gift  in  a  woman,  a  beautiful  hand. 
Very  capable  hands  they  were  too,  though  it  was 
later  in  life  that  she  became,  like  George  Eliot  and 
many  other  able  women,  an  exquisite  needle- 
woman ;  in  the  early  days  of  struggle  there  was 
no  time  for  that.  Her  handwriting  was  small  and 
delicate  and  neat.  Like  many  others  who  have 
written  much,  she  never  sat  at  a  table  to  write. 
She  just  held  a  little  block  in  her  hand,  as  near  to 
208 


vfy^  SA^LT 

her  eyes  as  she  could,  and  scribbled  away  in  any 
convenient  corner.  She  was  not  among  those  who 
make  a  fuss  about  their  "  work."  In  one  sense  it 
came  to  her  very  easily,  and  always  had  done;  but 
she  was  untiringly  diligent,  as  her  very  numerous 
volumes  of  prose  and  verse  will  at  once  suggest. 
There  seems  to  have  been  in  her  character  a  certain 
self-reliance  and  sureness  of  touch,  a  modest  self- 
dependence,  or  even  self-confidence,  which  is  cer- 
tainly at  the  very  opposite  pole  from  egotism  or 
vanity.  If  she  played  or  sang  or  entertained,  she 
merely  did  her  best,  and  gave  herself  no  petty 
anxiety  as  to  the  effect  produced.  This  may 
have  been  one  reason  perhaps  why,  without  being 
a  brilliant  talker,  when  she  did  speak,  what  she 
said  was  always  neatly  turned  and  to  the  point. 
Possibly  this  attitude  of  mind  was  made  the  easier 
from  the  fact  that  she  had  not  that  painfully  quick 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  which  often  makes  a  more 
complicated  nature  self-critical  and  self-torturing. 
This  freedom  from  self-regarding  regrets,  together 
with  her  constant  consideration  for  others,  and 
thoughtful  common  sense,  must  have  made  her  a 
singularly  restful  companion. 

She  first  came  to  London  about  1846,  and  she 
had  been  fortunate  in  the  fact  that  one  of  her 
friends,  Charles  Edward  Mudie,  came  up  at  about 
the  same  time,  and  another,  Alexander  Macmillan, 
rather  later.  One  created  "  Mudie's  Library," 
and  the  other  became  the  head  of  the  great  firm 
which  still  bears  his  name,  and  in  which  Mr.  Craik 
was  for  many  years  a  partner.  Both,  as  Dr.  Garnett 
points  out,  were  able  to  help  her. 

o  209 


OF 

It  was,  however,  through  another  friend,  no 
other  than  Mrs.  Oliphant  herself,  that,  at  a  little 
dinner-party  given  for  that  purpose,  she  was 
introduced  to  Mr.  Henry  Blackett  as  a  possible 
publisher  for  "John  Halifax."  That  novel  was 
published  on  generous  terms  by  Messrs.  Hurst 
and  Blackett  in  1857,  and  proved  an  instantaneous 
success.  It  was  warmly  welcomed  throughout 
England,  and  in  America  (as  has  been  pointed 
out  in  an  appreciative  introductory  note  to  one 
of  the  many  editions)  its  "rare  qualities  and  their 
actual  significance  were  more  clearly  understood 
and  appreciated  than  they  have  ever  yet  been  in 
England/' 

In  this  "  appreciation  "  we  have  a  most  interest- 
ing and  succinct  account  of  how  the  book  came 
to  be  written.  The  success  of  the  three  previous 
novels— "  The  Ogilvies,"  "  Olive,"  and  "The 
Head  of  the  Family  " — had  opened  to  the  author 
all  doors  "  in  all  grades  of  English  life,"  and, 
though  herself  an  earnest  Churchwoman,  it  seemed 
to  her  at  that  day  that  among  the  Quakers  she 
could  best  find  that  type  of  simple  and  ideal 
Christianity  lived  "  in  the  spirit  of  Paul  the  Tent- 
maker,"  which  was  what  she  now  wished  to  por- 
tray. She  had  already  "  found  her  models  and 
sketched  her  characters,5' — "  she  always  said  that 
Ursula  was  the  only  copy  from  nature  she  ever 
made" — when,  while  visiting  some  of  her  friends 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Cheltenham  and  Stroud, 
she  happened  to  drive  over  to  Tewkesbury,  and 
of  that  eventful  afternoon,  as  described  by 
Mrs.  Oliphant  from  the  notebook  of  one  of  the 

2IO 


friends  in  question,  we  are  permitted  by  the  cour- 
tesy of  Messrs.  Macmillan  to  give  the  following 
account : 

"In  the  summer  of  1852,"  said  this  friend, 
"  she  one  day  drove  over  with  me  to  see  the  quaint 
old  town  of  Tewkesbury.  Directly  she  saw  the 
grand  old  Abbey  and  the  mediaeval  houses  of  the 
High  Street,  she  decided  that  this  should  form 
the  background  of  her  story,  and  like  a  true  artist 
fell  to  work  making  mental  sketches  on  the  spot. 
A  sudden  shower  drove  us  into  one  of  the  old 
covered  alleys  opposite  the  house,  I  believe,  of 
the  then  town  clerk  of  Tewkesbury,  and  as  we 
stood  there,  a  bright-looking  but  ragged  boy 
also  took  refuge  at  the  mouth  of  the  alley,  and 
from  the  town  clerk's  window  a  little  girl  gazed 
with  looks  of  sympathy  at  the  ragged  boy  oppo- 
site. Presently  the  door  opened,  and  the  girl 
appeared  on  the  steps,  and  beckoned  to  the  boy 
to  take  a  piece  of  bread,  exactly  as  the  scene 
is  described  in  the  opening  chapters  of  cjohn 
Halifax.'  We  had  lunch  at  the  Bell  Inn,  and 
explored  the  bowling-green,  which  also  is  minutely 
and  accurately  described,  and  the  landlord's  state- 
ment that  the  house  had  once  been  used  by  a 
tanner,  and  the  smell  of  tan  which  filled  the  streets 
from  a  tan-yard  not  far  off,  decided  the  trade 
which  her  hero  was  to  follow. 

"She  made  one  or  two  subsequent  visits  to 
further  identify  her  background,  and  the  name  of 
her  hero  was  decided  by  the  discovery  of  an  old 
gravestone  in  the  Abbey  churchyard,  on  which 
was  inscribed  'John  Halifax.'  She  had  already 

211 


OF 

decided  that  the  hero's  Christian  name  must  be 
John,  but  the  surname  had  been  hitherto  doubtful." 

It  may  be  added  that  Longfield  is  drawn  from 
Detmore  House,  near  Cheltenham ;  and  we  are 
assured  that  Rose  Cottage  and  Enderley  Flat  were 
"  copied  exactly  from  Amberley  Common,  near 
Stroud." 

In  all  talk  with  those  who  were  intimate  with 
Mrs.  Craik,  such  talks  as  have  been  a  necessary 
preparation  for  this  slight  introduction  to  "  John 
Halifax,"  always  the  most  touching  and  beautiful 
facts  were  those  which  might  not  be  written  of  her, 
though  they  have  necessarily  coloured  the  whole 
tone  of  the  article.  One  such  fact  especially  has 
impressed  itself  indelibly  on  the  memory,  an  act 
of  tender  and  generous  maternal  thoughtfulness 
for  a  young  mother  and  child,  involving  detailed 
effort  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Craik,  and  of  him  who 
was  her  other  self  in  such  matters,  and  continued 
daily  for  many  months.  This  was  after  her 
marriage  with  Mr.  Craik  in  1865,  when  she  was 
living  in  her  beautiful  home  at  Shortlands  and 
had  adopted  a  little  daughter,  so  that  her  heart 
was  brimming  over  with  ever-deepening  affection 
towards  all  mothers  and  all  children. 

It  is  a  pity  that  because  of  her  extreme  reserve 
in  such  matters,  so  many  instances  of  her  friendly 
helpfulness  can  be  only  thus  distantly  alluded  to, 
and  must  be  held  as  secret  as  though  they  were 
crimes  instead  of  the  most  gracious  of  deeds. 
But  an  old  friend,  now  a  silver-haired  grand- 
father, though  the  youngest  and  most  energetic 
of  men,  has  added  a  pretty  touch  to  this  paper 

212 


by  telling,  with  due  permission  to  use  it,  a  little 
incident  of  a  much  more  trivial  kind,  which  he  has 
long  remembered  as  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Craik's 
kindliness,  a  kindliness  always  free  from  self-con- 
sciousness, and  almost  maternal  in  its  quick  and 
delicate  consideration  for  others.  She  was  no 
longer  a  girl  at  the  time  when  he  knew  her,  but 
full  of  charm — not  beautiful,  yet  of  a  haunting 
delightfulness — no  hard  angles  in  the  softly  sweep- 
ing curves  of  the  tall,  slim,  graciously  rounded 
figure,  the  face  lighting  up  sweetly  with  every 
passing  thought  or  emotion  that  flashed  its  wild- 
rose  colour  into  the  blonde  fairness,  or  glowed  in 
the  clear-shining,  eagerly  responsive  eyes, — 

"  Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 
Too  lovely  to  be  gray," — 

and  with  a  certain  firmness  in  the  moulding  of  the 
warm  red  lips,  and  in  the  calm  brow  beneath  the 
soft  brown  hair  just  touched  with  silver. 

He,  the  friend  who  tells  the  story,  was  much 
younger  than  she  was,  and  perhaps  seemed  to  her 
hardly  more  than  a  boy  in  those  days,  though  he 
admired  her  greatly.  He  used  to  meet  her  in  the 
house  of  a  well-known  novelist  and  poet,  her  friend 
and  his.  She  knew  all  about  his  wooing  and  the 
betrothal  that  followed,  though  neither  of  them 
could  know  then  to  what  ever-deepening  joy  it 
led  through  all  his  life.  It  was  in  the  first  flush 
of  that  happiness  that  by  chance  he  found  himself 
in  the  same  railway  carriage  with  her  on  the  North 
London  Railway  between  Camden  Road  and 
Richmond,  each  bound  to  the  same  wedding,  to 

213 


OF 

which  they  were  both  invited  guests — not  his  own 
wedding  this  time,  though  all  weddings  were  of 
extraordinary  interest  to  him  just  then.  He  is 
a  prosperous  man  now,  but  he  was  then  at  the 
beginning  of  life  with  his  way  still  to  make,  as 
no  doubt  she  very  well  knew  ;  and  lavender  gloves 
— such  gloves  as  he  had  bought  for  the  occasion — 
did  not  hang  on  every  hedge ;  they  were  a  shade 
too  small,  and  he  was  in  danger  of  ruining  them 
by  the  plunging  in  of  a  good  strong  masculine 
hand.  Miss  Mulock's  own  hands  were  not  quite 
so  large  as  his,  and  she  undertook,  quite  frankly 
and  simply,  to  try  the  gloves  on  herself  first,  and 
thereby  stretch  them  to  the  necessary  width.  She 
was  then  in  the  heyday  of  her  modest  fame,  and 
the  pretty  good-nature  with  which  it  was  done 
made  it  all  a  bit  of  pride  and  pleasure  to  the  young 
man ;  for  even  friendship  has  its  "  trifles  light  as 
air  "  that  cling  long  in  the  remembrance.  When, 
some  years  later,  he  heard  of  Miss  Mulock's 
own  marriage  in  1865  with  Mr.  George  Lillie 
Craik,  one  of  the  partners  in  the  house  of  Mac- 
millan  and  Co.,  every  detail  of  the  romance  was 
to  him  of  vivid  interest. 

This  marriage,  which  crowned  her  life  with  ever- 
increasing  happiness,  made  no  break  in  Mrs.  Craik's 
relations  with  her  own  publishers,  Messrs.  Hurst 
and  Blackett,  relations  which  seem  to  have  consti- 
tuted a  very  long  and  pleasant  business  connection, 
an  instance,  as  their  common  friend  Mrs.  Oliphant 
has  pointed  out,  of  Mrs.  Craik's  "  fidelity  to  every 
bond." 

In  conversation  with  others  of  her  old  friends 
214 


VICTOR A^  3(0 rSL 

before  writing  this  paper,  two  points  were  especially 
and  repeatedly  touched  upon.  First,  the  modest 
and  businesslike  way  in  which  she  treated  her 
writing,  never  talking  about  it,  but  when  her  house 
was  full  of  guests — guests  well  cared  for  in  every 
detail— just  slipping  out  of  their  ken  during  the 
mornings  while  she  achieved  her  daily  stint  of 
work,  and  then  giving  herself  up  to  them  wholly 
in  the  afternoon  and  evening ;  and  secondly,  the 
endless  delight  she  took  in  using  her  carriage  for 
the  convenience  of  those  who  had  no  carriage  of 
their  own,  plotting  and  counter-plotting  sometimes 
to  help  three  and  four  sets  of  people  on  the  same 
afternoon,  till  the  intricacies  of  the  arrangements 
made  it  quite  a  triumph  to  bring  all  to  a  successful 
conclusion. 

In  the  possession  of  more  than  one  of  these 
friends  there  is  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Craik,  taken 
not  long  before  her  death.  It  is  a  good,  sensible, 
trustworthy  face,  suggestive  of  a  character  entirely 
free  from  anything  tawdry  or  meretricious;  the 
hair  under  the  soft  lace — she  was  very  fond  of 
lace — is  parted  smoothly  above  the  wide,  tranquil 
forehead,  and  the  eyes  look  straight  onward  with 
a  certain  clear  steadfastness.  Nose,  mouth,  and 
chin  add  to  the  impression  of  courage  and 
veracity, — a  forcible  and  well-balanced  directness 
of  nature, — and  complete  an  aspect  of  gentle 
dignity  and  repose. 

One  of  her  lifelong  friends  remarked  lately: 
"  It  was  characteristic  of  her  simplicity  that  she 
used  to  say  of  the  little  girl  adopted  soon  after  her 
marriage,  and  who  lived  to  grow  up  and  marry 

215 


OF 

into  a  home  of  her  own  :  '  I  love  Dorothy  more 
even  than  if  she  were  a  child  of  my  own  ' ;  just  as 
though,"  added  the  friend  in  question,  "  she  could 
possibly  know  what  her  love  for  a  child  of  her 
own  would  have  been  !  " 

During  all  the  time  of  her  married  life  her 
pension  from  the  Queen  was  religiously  and 
silently  set  aside  for  the  service  of  those  who 
needed  it  more  than  herself.  For  nearly  twenty 
years  she  lived  at  Shortlands,  beloved  and  re- 
spected by  rich  and  poor. 

Mrs.  Oliphant,  from  whose  article  in  their 
magazine  Messrs.  Macmillan  have  kindly  per- 
mitted me  to  quote  the  following  paragraph,  has 
written  that  in  1887  "  her  medical  advisers  had 
enjoined  a  great  deal  of  rest,  with  which  the 
pleasant  cares  of  an  approaching  marriage  in  the 
family,  and  all  the  necessary  arrangements  to  make 
the  outset  of  her  adopted  daughter  in  life  as  bright 
and  delightful  as  possible,  considerably  interfered. 
In  one  attack  of  breathlessness  and  faintness  some 
short  time  before,  she  had  murmured  forth  an 
entreaty  that  the  marriage  should  not  be  delayed 
by  anything  that  could  happen  to  her.  But  even 
this  did  not  frighten  the  fond  and  cheerful  circle, 
which  was  used  to  nothing  but  happiness.  On 
the  morning  of  the  twelfth  of  October,  her 
husband,  before  going  off  to  his  business,  took  a 
loving  leave  of  her,  almost  more  loving  than  his 
wont,  though  without  any  presentiment, — pro- 
voking a  laughing  remark  from  their  daughter,  to 
which  Mrs.  Craik  answered  that  though  so  long 
married,  they  were  still  lovers.  These  were  the 
216 


S^RLT 

last  words  he  heard  from  her  lips,  and  no  man 
could  have  a  more  sweet  assurance  of  the  happiness 
his  tender  care  had  procured.  When  he  came 
home  cheerfully  in  the  afternoon  to  his  always 
cheerful  home,  the  sight  of  the  doctor's  carriage 
at  the  door,  and  the  coachman's  incautious  ex- 
planation that  '  the  lady  was  dying,'  were  the  only 
preparations  he  had  for  the  great  and  solemn 
event  which  had  already  taken  place.  He  found 
her  in  her  own  room,  lying  on  her  sofa,  with  an 
awestricken  group  standing  round — dead.  She 
had  entertained  various  visitors  in  the  afternoon. 
Some  time  after  they  were  gone,  she  had  rung  her 
bell,  saying  she  felt  ill ;  the  servants,  alarmed, 
called  for  assistance,  and  she  was  laid  upon  the 
sofa.  A  few  minutes'  struggle  for  breath,  a 
murmur,  '  Oh,  if  I  could  live  four  weeks  longer : 
but  no  matter — no  matter,'  and  all  was  over. 
Thus  she  died  as  she  had  lived — her  last  thought 
for  others,  for  the  bride  whose  festival  day  must 
be  overshadowed  by  so  heavy  a  cloud,  yet  of 
content  and  acquiescence  in  whatever  the  supreme 
Arbiter  of  events  thought  right.  An  ideal  ending, 
such  as  God  grant  us  all  when  our  day  comes." 

One  who  has  been  already  quoted  in  these 
pages  has  himself  quoted  Claude  de  Saint-Martin, 
"  the  great  unknown  philosopher,"  as  saying : 
"  Have  we  advanced  one  step  farther  on  the 
radiant  path  of  enlightenment  that  leads  to  the 
simplicity  of  men  ?  '  We  answer  that  it  may 
at  least  be  claimed  for  the  author  of "  John 
Halifax  "  that  her  footprints  led  that  way. 

By  public  subscription  a  monument  was  placed 

217 


OF 

in  Tewkesbury  Abbey  to  commemorate  her  name. 
Most  appropriately,  as  indicating  her  reverence 
and  her  faith,  these  words  from  the  close  of  "  John 
Halifax  "have  been  inscribed  on  the  memorial: 
"  Each  in  his  place  is  fulfilling  his  day  and  passing 
away,  just  as  that  sun  is  passing — only  we  know 
not  whither  he  passes  :  whither  we  go  we  know, 
and  the  Way  we  know — the  same  yesterday,  to- 
day, and  for  ever." 


218 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  GEORGE 
ELIOT'S  STORIES 

THERE  are  few  more  charming  scenes  in  George 
Eliot's  novels  than  that  in  which  little  Job  Tudge 
plays  an  important  part.  "  Job  was  a  small  fellow 
about  five,  with  a  germinal  nose,  large  round  blue 
eyes,  and  red  hair  that  curled  close  to  his  head." 
Having  wept  copiously  over  his  own  cut  finger, 
and  been  taught  that  such  was  not  the  part  of  a 
brave  Briton,  he  relieves  the  tension  of  that 
sweetly  difficult  moment  for  the  two  lovers,  who 
have  not  yet  learned  how  dear  they  are  to  one 
another,  when  Felix  Holt's  strong  hand  has  been 
laid  in  unspoken  comfort  on  Esther  Lyon's 
delicate  fingers,  while  she  tries  to  falter  forth 
her  sense  of  what  has  seemed  to  her  his  forgetful 
aloofness 

The  graceful,  self-centred  Miss  Lyon  was 
trembling  with  tears  in  the  presence  of  Felix 
Holt's  smothered  stress  of  feeling  and  calm  re- 
straint, when  little  Job  looked  up  by  way  of 
attracting  attention  to  himself,  exclaiming,  "  She's 
tut  her  finger,"  and,  amid  the  laughter  and  with- 
drawal of  hands  that  followed,  re  aied  to  Esther's 
confession  that  she  was  a  coward :  "  Zoo  souldn't 
kuy." 

Job  is  only  one  out  of  the  many  delightful 
children  who  are  found  in  George  Eliot's  novels. 
Either  by  accident  or  design,  they  are  often  in  the 
near  distance  in  some  critical  scene,  even  when,  as 

219 


OF 

in  this  instance,  they  do  not  actually  occupy  the 
foreground. 

Milly  Barton's  children  are  drawn  with  such 
delicate  realism,  so  chary  a  touch  upon  the  deep 
well-springs  of  sacred  emotion,  that  the  story 
leaves  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  such  an  imprint 
as  only  a  great  artist  could  have  achieved.  And 
the  same  master-hand  has  drawn  for  us  Marty 
and  Tommy  and  Tottie  in  "Adam  Bede,"  who, 
despite  the  knee-breeches  of  the  period,  are  just 
such  children  as  may  be  found  in  country  farm- 
houses to-day. 

c< '  Mind  what  the  parson  says,  mind  what  the 
parson  says,  my  lads/  said  Grandfather  to  the 
black-eyed  youngsters  in  knee-breeches,  conscious 
of  a  marble  or  two  in  their  pockets  which  they 
looked  forward  to  handling  a  little,  secretly, 
during  the  sermon. 

"  'Dood-bye,  dandad,'  said  Totty  ;  f  me  doin* 
to  church,  me  dot  my  netlace  on.  Dive  me  a 
peppermint.'  .  .  . 

"  And  when  they  were  all  gone,  the  old  man 
leaned  on  the  gate  again,  watching  them  across 
the  lane  along  the  Home  Close,  and  through  the 
far  gate,  till  they  disappeared  behind  a  bend  in  the 
hedge.  For  the  hedgerows  in  those  days  shut  out 
one's  view,  even  on  the  better-managed  farms  ; 
and  this  afternoon  the  dog-roses  were  tossing  out 
their  pink  wreaths,  the  nightshade  was  in  its 
yellow  and  purple  glory,  the  pale  honeysuckle 
grew  out  of  reach,  peeping  high  up  out  of  a 
holly-bush,  and  over  all  an  ash  or  a  sycamore 
220 


SLiors 

every  now  and  then  threw  its  shadow  across  the 
path.  .  .   . 

"  The  fact  was  that  this  Sunday  walk  through 
the  fields  was  fraught  with  great  excitement  to 
Marty  and  Tommy,  who  saw  a  perpetual  drama 
going  on  in  the  hedgerows,  and  could  no  more 
refrain  from  stopping  and  peeping  than  if  they 
had  been  a  couple  of  spaniels  or  terriers.  Marty 
was  quite  sure  he  saw  a  yellow-hammer  on  the 
boughs  of  the  great  ash,  and  while  he  was  peep- 
ing, he  missed  the  sight  of  a  white-throated  stoat, 
which  had  run  across  the  path  and  was  described 
with  much  fervour  by  the  junior  Tommy.  Then 
there  was  a  little  green-finch,  just  fledged,  flutter- 
ing along  the  ground,  and  it  seemed  quite  possible 
to  catch  it  till  it  managed  to  flutter  under  the 
blackberry  bush.  .  .  ." 

And  then  there  is  Tommy  Bond,  who  had 
"  recently  quitted  frocks  and  trousers  for  the  severe 
simplicity  of  a  tight  suit  of  corduroys,  relieved  by 
numerous  brass  buttons.  Tommy  was  a  saucy 
boy,  impervious  to  all  impressions  of  reverence, 
and  excessively  addicted  to  humming-tops  and 
marbles,  with  which  recreative  resources  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  immoderately  distending  the  pockets 
of  his  corduroys.  One  day,  spinning  his  top  on 
the  garden  walk,  and  seeing  the  vicar  advance 
directly  towards  it,  at  that  exciting  moment  when 
it  was  beginning  to  '  sleep '  magnificently,  he 
shouted  out  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs — 
'  Stop !  don't  knock  my  top  down,  now !  ' 
From  that  day  '  little  Corduroys  '  had  been  an 

221 


OF 

especial  favourite  with  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  delighted 
to  provoke  his  ready  scorn  and  wonder  by  putting 
questions  which  gave  Tommy  the  meanest  opinion 
of  his  intellect. 

"  <  Well,  little  Corduroys,  have  they  milked  the 
geese  to-day  ? ' 

"  '  Milked  the  geese  ?  Why,  they  don't  milk 
the  geese,  you  silly  ! ' 

"  '  No  ?  dear  heart  ?  Why,  how  do  the  goslings 
live,  then  ? ' 

"  The  nutriment  of  goslings  rather  transcend- 
ing Tommy's  observations  in  natural  history,  he 
feigned  to  understand  this  question  in  an  ex- 
clamatory rather  than  an  interrogatory  sense,  and 
became  absorbed  in  winding  up  his  top. 

"  *  Ah,  I  see  you  don't  know  how  the  goslings 
live.  But  did  you  notice  how  it  rained  sugar- 
plums yesterday  ? '  (Here  Tommy's  face  be- 
came attentive.)  'Why,  they  fell  into  my 
pocket  as  I  rode  along.  You  look  in  my  pocket 
and  see  if  they  didn't.' 

"  Tommy,  without  waiting  to  discuss  the 
alleged  antecedent,  lost  no  time  in  ascertaining  the 
presence  of  the  agreeable  consequence,  for  he  had 
a  well-founded  belief  in  the  advantages  of  diving 
into  the  vicar's  pocket.  Mr.  Gilfil  called  it  his 
wonderful  pocket,  because,  as  he  delighted  to  tell 
the  c  young  shavers '  and  '  two  shoes ' — so  he 
called  all  little  boys  and  girls — whenever  he  put 
pennies  into  it,  they  turned  into  sugar-plums  or 
ginger-bread,  or  some  other  nice  thing.  Indeed, 
little  Bessie  Parrot,  a  flaxen-headed  '  two  shoes,' 
very  white  and  fat  as  to  her  neck,  always  had  the 

222 


SLIOTS  sroi^res 

admirable  directness  and  sincerity  to  salute  him 
with  the  question,  '  What  zoo  dot  in  zoo  pottet?" 

Tina,  the  heroine  of  "  Mr.  GilnTs  Love-story," 
and  that  enchanting  sprig  of  apple-blossom,  the 
Hetty  Sorrel  of  Adam  Bede's  earlier  love,  before 
sin  had  darkened  and  awakened  in  her  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  soul  within,  are  both  almost  as 
truly  children  in  their  dawning  and  dangerous 
womanhood  as  was  the  immortal  Maggie  Tulliver 
herself,  in  those  early  days  when  she  inquired 
anxiously  whether  Mrs.  Stelling  was  "a  cross 


woman/1 


Tessa's  children  are  remembered  for  the  wise 
words  they  drew  from  Romola  about  the  happi- 
ness that  sometimes  lies  in  a  difficult  choice,  and 
the  Garths  are  altogether  normal  and  delightful 
children,  but  it  is  in  the  exquisite  skill  with  which 
George  Eliot  brings  home  to  us  the  charm  of  such 
everyday  babies  as  Mrs.  Poyser's  Tottie,  and  the 
little  grandchild  of  the  Jeromes,  in  "  Janet's 
Repentance,"  that  this  author — herself  childless 
— stands  indisputably  supreme. 


223 


THE  WORDS  AND  WAYS 
OF  CHILDREN 

A  HARD-WORKED  London  artist  told  his  friends 
with  great  glee  one  evening  that  he  had  had  three 
pieces  of  luck  that  day :  he  had  sat  opposite  to  a 
beautiful  face  in  the  Underground  Railway  ;  he  had 
been  assured  by  a  stranger  that  he  was  a  good- 
hearted  fellow  ;  and,  best  of  all,  he  had  overheard 
a  little  ragged  girl  saying  to  herself,  over  and  over 
again,  "  Two  silver  shillings  !  Two  silver  shil- 
lings !  "  having  come  into  possession  of  that  magic 
treasure. 

No  one  was  commonplace  enough  to  ask  him 
why  the  little  girl's  words  should  have  so  tickled  his 
fancy.  Silver  shillings  are  common  enough,  but 
they  may,  like  other  current  coin,  be  transmuted 
by  the  glamour  of  childhood  into  symbols  of 
happiness  itself. 

Children  have  no  language  which  will  adequately 
describe  the  slowly  moving  miraculous  panorama 
of  their  inward  visions.  Walter  Bagehot  has 
expressed  this  with  delightful  humour,  where  he 
says  of  this  interior  existence  :  "  You  have  war- 
like ideas,  but  you  cannot  say  to  a  sinewy  relative : 
'  My  dear  aunt,  I  wonder  when  the  big  bush  in  the 
garden  will  begin  to  walk  about ;  I'm  sure  it's  a 
Crusader,  and  I  was  cutting  it  all  day  long  with 
my  steel  sword.  But  what  do  you  think,  aunt  ? 
for  I'm  puzzled  about  its  legs,  because,  you  see, 
aunt,  it  has  only  one  stalk ;  and  besides,  aunt, 
224 


OF 

the  leaves.'  You  cannot  remark  this  in  secular 
life,  but  you  hack  at  the  invincible  bush  till  you 
do  not  wholly  reject  the  idea  that  your  small  garden 
is  Palestine,  and  yourself  the  most  adventurous  of 
knights." 

The  sense  of  humour  in  boys  is  only  equalled 
by  their  healthy  hatred  of  all  cant  and  affectation. 
But  perhaps  the  morbid  desire  of  the  senti- 
mentalists to  "dee  and  do  nought  ava  "  is  begin- 
ning to  taint  even  the  childhood  of  this  artificial 
age,  for  a  little  boy,  lately  promoted  to  knicker- 
bockers, professed  at  last  to  have  found  something 
to  live  for.  "Nurse,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to 
die  now" 

4 'No,  Master  Frank,  I  suppose  not;  but  what 
makes  you  say  that  ? " 

"  Why,  Nursie,  because  of  my  braces  !  " 

Even  to  healthy-minded  children,  death,  so  long 
as  it  leaves  their  own  immediate  circle  untouched, 
is  not  seldom  an  attractive  mystery,  though  I  know 
of  one  child  of  five  who  wept  bitterly  when  the 
trees  in  the  park  near  her  home  were  blown  down 
by  the  wind,  and  from  whom  the  death  of  birds 
and  other  favourites  had  to  be  carefully  hidden. 
Perhaps  the  loneliness  of  her  childhood  increased 
this  sensibility.  It  was  natural  that  so  loving  a 
heart  should  long  for  brothers  and  sisters.  She 
was  overheard  on  one  occasion  praying :  "  O 
God,  give  me  a  little  brother  if  it  is  necessary  !  " 
"necessity"  being  to  her  commensurate  with 
the  Divine  will. 

There  are  beautiful  touches  in  the  religion  of 
children.  A  certain  little  dark-eyed  boy  was  stay- 

p  225 


OF 

ing,  a  while  ago,  in  the  same  house  with  a  little 
fair-haired  girl  called  Beatrice,  who  was  several 
years  older  than  he.  She,  in  her  superior  wisdom, 
was  to  him  as  a  guardian  angel,  and  he,  with 
watchful  chivalry,  made  himself  her  most  patient 
and  lowly  servant.  He  was  one  of  a  Sunday  class 
where  the  children  were  asked  one  day  what  things 
they  should  ask  God  for,  the  mistress  expecting, 
of  course,  that  they  would  reply  :  "For  bread,  for 
raiment,  for  a  roof  to  cover  us."  A  great  light 
came  into  this  boy's  black  eyes  and  flashed  over  his 
pale  face.  "  For  Beatrices,"  he  said. 

A  well-known  writer,  who  had  a  special  sym- 
pathy with  children,  quotes  with  approval  an 
essayist,  of  whom  she  says  :  "  He  considers  that 
children  are  defective  in  sensation,  that  all  their 
perceptions  of  outward  things  are  far  less  vivid 
than  those  of  a  grown  person,  and  that  they  live 
almost  altogether  in  a  world  of  phantasmagoria, 
which  is  much  more  important  to  them  than  any- 
thing outward,  and  which  cuts  them  off  from  the 
grown-up  people's  world." 

There  is  one  strong  believer  in  this  doctrine 
who  can  still  remember  vaguely — now  that  she  is 
a  child  no  longer — how,  one  day,  when  she  had 
begun  to  make  pot-hooks  and  round  O's,  there 
came  over  her  a  dumb,  passionate  desire  to  embody 
in  these  hieroglyphic  signs,  which  she  had  seen 
her  elders  use  on  paper,  though  she  was  quite 
unable  to  express  it  in  spoken  words,  some  record 
of  a  lovely  pastoral  vision  which  was  haunting 
her.  Whether  it  had  come  to  her  in  a  dream  or 
as  a  peculiarly  vivid  waking  phantasy,  or  whether 
226 


OF 

it  was  the  memory  of  some  previous  existence 
before  the  "  shades  of  the  prison-house  "  had  begun 
to  close  about  her,  she  cannot  to  this  day  feel 
sure.  But  she  can  still  see  in  imagination  the  long, 
somewhat  bare  upper  room,  with  its  three  little 
white  beds,  where  there  came  to  her  the  desperate 
impulse  to  dash  down  in  lines  and  circles  what  she 
was  too  shy  to  express  in  audible  speech,  and  what, 
indeed,  altogether  transcended  such  possibilities  of 
language  as  were  within  her  reach.  And  this 
shyness  was  mixed  with  a  scarcely  defined  belief 
that  this  peaceful  other-world  vision,  which  was  so 
far  removed  from  her  daily  experience  that  it 
would  be  treated  as  idle  tales  if  uttered  in  her 
blundering  child-language,  might  possibly  gain 
credence  if  it  could  only  get  itself  embodied  in 
written  symbols  ;  and  then  how  surprised  the 
elders  would  be  who  had  not  shared  with  her  the 
fair  sights  and  sounds,  and  had  no  idea  of  the 
secret  treasure  which  was  locked  within  her 
memory ! 

It  is  all  vague  and  dim  to  her,  like  those  recol- 
lections gathered  from  yet  earlier  babyhood,  of 
how  one  day,  when  she  was  crying  over  a  midday 
siesta,  which  was  at  that  time  prescribed  to  all 
children,  a  companion  child,  some  years  older  than 
herself,  advised  her,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  patronage, 
to  suck  her  thumb,  an  anodyne  for  all  troubles, 
which  the  young  counsellor  had  found  unfailing ; 
or  how,  on  a  like  melancholy  occasion,  a  kind  hand 
dropped  into  a  little  wooden  crib,  where  she  lay 
sobbing,  a  lovely  cowslip  ball,  its  golden  blossoms, 
in  their  pale  green  setting,  all  cool  and  sweet,  and 

227 


OF 

smelling  of  the  meadows ;  or  how,  when  she  was 
nearly  three  years  old,  a  neighbour  made  an  epoch 
in  her  history  by  giving  her,  over  the  low  iron 
railing  which  divided  the  two  grass  plots,  a  bright 
blue  corncockle  from  her  own  garden. 

This  love  of  flowers  was  a  strong  bond  of 
sympathy  between  the  child  and  her  father.  It 
was  he  who  took  her  in  the  early  spring-time  to 
the  one  field  down  by  the  river  where  the  wood- 
anemones  grew.  It  is  not  often  that  they  are 
found  away  from  the  woodlands,  but  Twilight's 
father  (that  was  the  nickname  he  gave  her  once, 
though  it  quickly  dropped  into  disuse)  knew  one 
such  magical  spot  where  they  were  as  common  as 
cuckoo-flowers.  And  later — more  joyous  adven- 
ture still ! — down  by  the  brown  canal,  with  its 
endless  locks  and  fairy  waterfalls,  were  found  the 
first  dog-roses.  Before  Twilight  could  pluck 
them  she  must  cross  a  narrow  plank  over  the 
foaming  water ;  but  all  was  safe  in  her  father's 
presence ;  and  then  there  followed  the  delight  of 
gathering  with  her  own  hands,  out  of  the  hedge, 
one  of  the  sweet  pale  pink  buds. 

Twilight  and  her  brothers  and  sisters  were  not 
taught  theology,  but  I  have  heard  that  when  she 
was  asked  one  day  who  would  take  care  of  her  doll 
while  she  was  away  on  a  visit  she  replied  quite 
simply  :  "  Oh,  dear  God,  of  course." 

This  doll  seems  to  have  been  a  very  lively 
personage ;  for  Twilight,  who  had  once  been 
dosed  with  homoeopathic  medicine,  when  she  was 
restless  in  her  sleep,  is  said  to  have  knocked  at 
her  mother's  bedroom  door  one  morning,  and 
228 


OF 

when  asked  what  was  the  matter,  said  Dolly  had 
been  kicking  so  all  night  that  she  must  have 
some  "  tamomilla."  It  was  only  as  Dolly  grew 
older  that  her  beautiful  blue  satin  gown  was  cut 
up  to  make  a  banner  for  the  rifle  corps  in  which 
her  mistress  was  a  volunteer. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  in  those  days  the  said 
mistress  was  a  very  boisterous  and  rather  domi- 
neering little  person,  and  had  to  be  constantly 
admonished  that  she  was  "  not  a  little  boy."  She 
must  have  been  an  odd  mingling  of  the  mystic 
and  the  torn-boy,  for  about  the  time  when  she  was 
given  to  dressing  up  as  Masterman  Ready,  playing 
at  pirates,  performing  circus  tricks,  and  other 
various  and  indescribable  naughtiness,  she  em- 
ployed her  quieter  moments  in  drawing  imaginary 
portraits  of  the  fairies  who  dwelt  in  the  diverse 
flowers,  and  on  one  occasion,  when  she  was  un- 
happy, she  comforted  herself  with  the  idea  that 
she  was  visited  by  an  angel.  Her  parents  would 
scarcely  have  approved  had  they  known  of  the 
elaborate  system  of  penances  which  she  drew  up 
for  herself. 

She  had  been  reading  "  Settlers  at  Home,"  and 
she  seldom  went  up  and  down  stairs  without  a 
terrible  feeling  that  "  Roger,"  the  bad  genius  of 
the  book,  was  at  her  heels.  Her  self-ordained 
punishments,  therefore,  were  chiefly  journeys  up 
and  down  the  house :  for  one  offence  ten  runs 
upstairs,  for  two  faults  twenty,  and  so  on. 

The  first  memory  of  pain  in  her  childhood  is 
of  a  very  curious  kind,  and  may  remind  us  how 
absurd  it  is  to  expect  children  to  appreciate 

229 


OF 

the  importance  of  the  more  serious  events  of 
life. 

A  near  relative,  who  had  been  very  kind  to  the 
child,  had  suddenly  died.  But  the  word  "  death  " 
was  only  a  name  to  her,  and  gave  no  pain.  In- 
stead of  realising  that  she  would  never  see  again 
the  face  she  loved,  or  hear  the  dear  familiar  voice, 
that  life  would  thenceforth  be  a  poorer,  blanker 
thing  to  her,  she  felt  an  odd  kind  of  excitement, 
and  almost  elation,  at  having  come  in  contact 
with  one  of  the  "grown-up"  experiences  of  this 
troublesome  world.  But  when  she  rushed  into 
the  drawing-room  with  some  trivial  remark  about 
black  clothes,  she  perceived,  with  a  pang  which 
has  left  its  memory  to  this  day,  that  she  appeared 
to  her  elders  to  be  guilty  of  a  strange  heartless- 
ness.  The  news  that  her  friend  was  dead — the 
bright  lad  who  gave  her  her  first  book,  and  was 
always  ready  to  play  with  her — that  caused  her 
no  real  suffering  ;  it  was  not  until  long  afterwards 
that  she  understood  the  sorrow  of  death.  But 
the  discovery  that  she  had  wounded  and  dis- 
appointed those  she  loved  by  her  want  of  feeling 
— that  gave  her  unspeakable  pain. 

To  most  people  the  self  of  to-day  is  no  very 
ideal  person.  They  realise  painfully  enough  its 
ignorance  and  folly.  But  the  self  of  childhood — 
that  is  quite  a  different  matter. 

That  dream- haunted,  high-spirited  little  romp, 
far  away  among  the  shadows  and  the  blossoms  of 
the  past,  that  is  the  soul  to  laugh  and  cry  over 
—an  altogether  absurd,  loving,  grotesque  little 
figure.  As  we  look  back,  half  doubting  our  own 
230 


OF 

identity,  we  are  like  a  rough  workman  I  know  of, 
who,  meeting  a  mother  and  child  in  the  streets 
one  day,  whispered  audibly :  "  I  wish  I  was  as 
innocent  as  yon  child  looks !  "  We  wish  we 
were  as  free  from  the  hard  and  selfish  spirit  of  the 
world  as  those  earnest  little  souls  seem  to  us  to 
have  been. 


231 


IN  EARLY  AUTUMN 

AT  summer  dawn,  that  makes  the  world  anew 

In  primal  loveliness  of  Eden's  birth, 
And  bathes  the  blossoms  with  the  heavenly  dew 
That  gives  a  daily  childhood  to  the  earth, 
When  beauty  pierces  like  a  beckoning  cry, 
Oh,  let  the  children  share  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

Oh,  send  them  here  before  it  is  too  late, 

While  still  the  swallows  dip  their  wings  in  light 
And  every  day  the  sunset's  golden  gate 

Throws  wide  the  splendours  of  the  summer 

night ! 

Ok,  send  the  children  here :  the  days  go  by  ; 
Oh9  send  the  frailest  quickly  y  ere  they  die  ! 

Snapdragons  now  are  laughing  in  the  hedge, 
And  thrush  to  fellow-thrush  is  jargoning  ; 
The  little  river  running  through  the  sedge 
Sings  on,  while  reeds  bend  over,  answering  : 
Earth  garners  loveliness  ;  the  days  go  by : 
Leave  death  for  age  ;  the  young  buds  must  not 
die. 

The  harebell  leans  upon  the  passing  breeze, 
And  honeysuckles  weave  their  fairy  bowers  ; 

Oh,  think  what  joy,  among  the  leafy  trees, 
For  London  waifs  to  pluck  the  lavish  flowers  ! 

Oh,  send  the  children  here  :  the  days  go  by ; 
Oh,  sena  the  frailest  quickly,  ere  they  die  ! 
232 


The  pine-tree,  bathed  in  sunshine,  softly  sways 

A  fragrant  censer  that  will  scatter  health 
To  strengthen  wanderers  in  the  woodland  ways, 
And  give  them  store  of  Nature's  living  wealth  : 
Oh,  send  the  children  here :  the  moments  fly ; 
And,  while  you  pause  to  think,  some  child  may 
die. 

The  corn  has  fallen  now  in  sheaves  of  gold  ; 

The  noonday  spaces  melt  in  sapphire  deeps  : 
The  distant  hills  are  dreaming,  fold  on  fold, 
In  dim  blue  distance  where  a  young  moon  sleeps. 
Oh,  send,  the  children  here :  the  days  go  by  ; 
Oh,  send  the  frailest  quickly,  ere  they  die  ! 

At  eve  yon  moon,  a  drifting  snowflake  yet, 
Will  rise — a  silver  sickle — o'er  the  Rose 
That  scatters  petals  when  the  sun  hath  set ; 
And  then  a  million  flowers  in  sleep  will  close. 
Oh,  send  the  frail  flowers  here  who  tossing  lie 
In  crowded  cities  !     Save  them,  ere  they  die  ! 


233 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW 

LET  us  by  all  means  build  sanatoria  for  the  con- 
sumptive patients  whose  health  we  have  ruined, 
and  found  schools  of  hygiene  for  teachers  whose 
constitutions  we  have  undermined  !  So  long  as 
there  is  still  hope  of  cure  or  of  reform,  we  shall  at 
least  have  improved  a  little  on  the  time-honoured 
practice  of  giving  handsome  burial  to  the  prophets 
conveniently  done  to  death.  But,  setting  aside  the 
patent  fact  that  consumption  and  degeneration  are 
likely  to  claim  their  victims,  so  long  as  thousands 
of  overworked  people  are  denied  a  living  wage, 
there  is,  even  in  the  present  distress,  one  initial  life- 
saving  reform  which  costs  nothing  except  common 
sense  and  courage,  and  need  not  be  delayed  for  the 
reconstruction  of  society.  The  atmosphere  of 
many  of  our  offices,  shops,  and  churches,  is  often 
so  fetid  that  any  one  with  a  keen  sense  of  smell, 
entering  from  the  pure  air  outside,  experiences  a 
sense  of  foulness  indescribable ;  and  still  more  is 
this  true  of  overcrowded,  unventilated  trains  and 
omnibuses.  Such  a  person,  if  he  has  an  even 
elementary  knowledge  of  the  conditions  favour- 
able to  disease,  feels  no  longer  any  wonder  at  the 
authorised  computation  in  1906  that,  in  London 
alone,  no  fewer  than  80,000  people  are  stricken  with 
one  form  or  another  of  tuberculosis,  and  u  16,000 
persons  die  every  year  whose  valuable  lives  might  be 
saved  with  proper  treatment,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
thousands  who  are  slowly  moving  to  their  doom." 
234 


The  grim  humour  of  it  all  is  beyond  words. 
The  one  means  of  life  which  can  be  neither  taxed 
nor  paid  for,  the  one  pure  element  which  makes 
for  beauty  and  vigour  and  longevity,  is  treated  on 
all  hands  as  a  dangerous  enemy  to  be  shut  out  at 
all  costs  throughout  the  whole  of  our  long  winter. 
Everybody  poses  on  occasion  as  a  devotee  of  fresh 
air,  but  the  man,  or  the  woman  either,  who  dares 
boldly  to  open  a  window  wide  in  any  public  place 
of  resort,  is  eyed  askance  and  treated  with  a 
smothered  resentment,  a  polite  hostility,  which 
opens  fire  with  significantly  conscious  sneezes  and 
coughs,  the  pulling  up  of  coat-collars  and  drawing 
on  of  mantles,  and  usually  ends  by  a  determined 
raid  upon  the  offending  window  which,  with  an  air 
of  virtuous  and  collective  indignation,  is  too  often 
hastily  and  decisively  closed  again.  Yet,  even 
apart  from  the  extreme  danger  to  health  involved 
in  this  worship  of  stuffiness,  had  the  worshippers 
only  enough  knowledge  and  imagination  to  picture 
for  an  instant  the  nature  of  the  filth  they  are 
swallowing,  their  disgust  would  be  so  overwnelm- 
ing  that  they  would  probably  not  only  open  every 
window,  but  in  many  cases  make  an  instinctive 
rush  for  the  door. 

There  is  tragedy  in  the  accusation  so  lightly 
thrown  at  "  the  great  Unwashed  ''  ;  for  those  who 
make  it  forget  to  ask  themselves  how  many  of  the 
very  poor,  in  their  day-long  scramble  for  bare 
bread  and  roof  and  raiment  for  their  children, 
have,  under  existing  social  conditions,  either  suffi- 
cient bath-rooms  or  sufficient  leisure  for  civilised 
grooming.  But  many  of  their  so-called  "  supe- 

235 


OF 

riors,"  who  plume  themselves  on  their  continual 
tubbing  and  general  devotion  to  external  soap  and 
water,  are  content  to  swallow  unboiled,  not  only 
water  from  a  sewage-polluted  river,  but  air  from 
other  people's  polluted  lungs.  Whether  or  no 
John  Bull  continues,  with  an  air  of  bravado,  to 
drink,  without  any  sufficient  precaution,  the  milk 
and  the  water  which  are  seldom  technically  clean, 
it  is  certain  that  his  first  step  towards  the  prevention 
of  tuberculosis  ought  to  be  a  reform  of  his  dirty 
habits  in  relation  to  unclean  and  noxious  air.  Such 
air  is  almost  always  germ-laden,  but  what  is  em- 
phasised here  is  not  so  much  its  danger  to  life  as 
its  loathsome  impurity.  Yet  at  the  same  time  it 
cannot  be  wholly  forgotten  that,  for  reasons  not  far 
to  seek,  our  national  scourge  of  tuberculosis  feeds 
upon  the  filth  of  bad  air. 


236 


YOUNG  ART  AND  MY  LITTLE 
RED  RIDING-HOOD 

I  HAVE  seen  "  Young  Art  "  again  to-day,  after 
a  long  interval,  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  grave 
little  face  that  seemed  as  appropriate  as  a  Christmas 
carol  to  the  inner  meaning  of  our  great  festival. 
There  is  usually  a  kind  of  holy  joy  about  Young 
Art,  even  when,  as  to-day,  he  has  evidently  the 
cares  or  sorrows  of  his  family  much  on  his  mind. 
I  am  not  sure  of  his  exact  age,  but  it  is  somewhere 
between  seven  and  eight,  I  take  it,  and  even  in  his 
"  old-fashionedness  "  he  is  essentially  a  child,  one 
of  the  little  ones  to  whom  the  "  Christ-masse  ''  is 
especially  dedicated.  His  father — "  Art,"  without 
the  prefix — is  beyond  the  region  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, and  his  mother,  who  was  like  the  Old 
Woman  who  lived  in  a  Shoe,  is  also  outside  my 
circle.  With  daily  work  to  do  it  is  impossible  to 
know  every  one,  even  among  the  very  poor,  who 
have  certainly  a  deeper  claim  upon  time  and 
attention  than  many  of  their  fortunate  neighbours, 
and  perhaps  also  more  vital  lessons  to  teach  to 
those  of  us  who  trade  mainly  in  words.  Young 
Art — that  is  the  name  by  which  I  hear  his  family 
designate  him,  though  I  divine  that  his  true 
patronymic  is  that  of  the  great  Pendragon  of  the 
Round  Table — Young  Art  has  been  bred  from 
babyhood  in  that  saddest,  deepest  poverty  of  all 
which  is  the  result  of  some  one  else's  wasteful  self- 
indulgence.  Already  it  is  plain  that  he  tries  to 

237 


OF 

guard  and  cherish  his  heroic  young  foster-mother, 
a  woman  with  a  face  that  in  its  first  youthful 
contour  must  have  resembled  the  pure  outline  of 
Dinah  Morris's  gentle  countenance.  She  is  his 
father's  sister,  and  her  married  life  has  been  one 
long  martyrdom  in  the  cause  of  ideal  womanhood, 
the  continual  kindler  of  the  faggots  about  her 
burning  feet  being  tied  to  her  by  the  law  of 
wedlock,  and  tied  equally  fast  to  his  own  favourite 
and  money-squandering  vice.  She  has  no  children 
of  her  own ;  Young  Art,  who  was  begged  from 
"  the  Old  Woman  who  lived  in  a  Shoe  " — one  or 
a  family  of  fourteen,  I  think  he  told  me — is  the 
idol  of  her  affections.  At  her  poor,  well-brushed 
hearth,  there  has  always  been  a  welcome  also  for 
his  brave,  handsome  young  cousin,  who  has  been 
starving  of  late  in  silence  with  her  baby  and  her 
"  unemployed  "  husband  at  a  fireless  hearth  of  her 
own,  as  I  discovered  by  accident,  this  bitter  cold 
day  ;  to  say  naught  of  the  feckless  ne'er-do-well 
nephew,  to  whom  every  other  door  except  that 
of  the  prison  has  long  since  been  closed.  To  these 
last  she  is  pathetically,  unwearyingly  kind ;  but 
Young  Art  is  the  one  joy  of  her  meagre  and  other- 
wise joyless  treadmill.  For  him  she  slaves  early 
and  late,  spending  long  hours  at  the  wash-tub  and 
the  ironing-board,  to  earn  the  wherewithal,  and 
keeping  the  child  himself  exquisitely  neat  and,  like 
herself,  looking  always  "  clean  as  a  snowdrop.'' 
He  is  never  fantastically  or  gaudily  dressed,  yet 
his  quaint,  smiling  gravity  and  elderly  daintiness  of 
perfectly  mended  apparel,  give  him  somehow  the 
air  of  a  child  out  of  a  picture-book,  even  apart 

238 


from  the  singular  home-made  barrow  on  which, 
out  of  school  hours,  he  is  so  often  wheeling  home 
a  modest  burden  of  carefully  got-up  lingerie.  His 
manners  are  distinguished,  and  quite  unlike  those 
of  the  small  rabble  with  whom  he  mixes  at  the 
Board  school,  whither,  with  the  other  child 
inhabitants  of  this  hamlet,  he  daily  wends  his  way. 
His  foster-mother's  love  is  so  great  that  it  is  itself 
an  education  and  gives  him  a  kind  of  royalty,  so 
that  he  has  all  the  fearless,  quiet  savoir-faire  of  a 
gentleman,  and,  without  analysing  it  to  himself, 
feels  somehow  that  his  attentions  are  welcome. 
When  all  the  children  in  our  lane,  some  sixty  of 
them,  came  for  tea  in  our  little  backyard,  and 
adjourned  with  me  to  the  pine-woods  afterwards,  it 
was  Young  Art  who  quietly  managed  to  reach 
high  enough  to  slip  his  little  arm  through  mine 
and  tow  me  along  protectively. 

My  other  guard-of-honour  on  that  occasion  was 
my  Little  Red  Riding-Hood.  I  think  of  her  as 
that,  because,  though  she  does  not  wear  scarlet, 
her  exquisite  beauty  would  be  so  perfectly  set  off 
by  a  red  cloak  and  hood,  and  even  more  than 
Young  Art  she  suggests  a  child  out  of  a  Christmas 
volume.  The  liquid  dark  eyes  look  forth  from  a 
little  white  face,  like  a  delicately  cut  cameo,  where 
the  only  touch  of  colour  is  in  the  pretty  red  lips 
that  are  always  bravely  smiling.  The  black  hair 
that  frames  this  charming  vision  is  itself  a  charm, 
and  the  child  seems  to  be  one  of  those  whose 
pinafores  are  always  clean.  It  is  her  wonderful 
smile  that  wins  the  heart ;  it  seems  to  bubble  up 
perpetually  from  some  hidden  fountain  of  love  and 

239 


OF 

light.  Even  on  that  saddest  morning,  when  Red 
Riding-Hood's  own  hunger  was  forgotten  in  that 
of  her  starving  little  gray  dog,  her  smile  had  not 
quite  vanished.  By  a  happy  chance  I  espied  them 
together,  that  bitter  day,  the  child  and  the  dog, 
lingering  a  moment  in  wistful  silence  outside  my 
garden  railing.  It  was  then  that  our  real  friend- 
ship began.  Dogs  and  I  are  almost  always  on 
more  or  less  comradely  terms,  and  when  I  clapped 
eyes  on  the  poor  little  four-legged  gray  skeleton 
that  piercing  winter  morning  last  year,  it  was  for 
the  dog's  sake  even  more  than  the  child's  that  I 
rushed  away  for  a  bone.  Oh,  the  joy  of  that  bone 
to  all  three  of  us !  The  poor  half-perishing  dog 
never  forgot  it,  nor  did  the  child,  nor  did  I. 
When  the  hard  time  was  over,  and  the  poor  little 
bag  of  skin  and  bone  began  to  look  a  real  dog 
once  more,  he  came  back  again  and  again  alone, 
without  his  mistress,  to  thank  me.  You  say  it 
was  for  more  bones  ?  I  shall  not  be  believed,  but 
when  I  fetched  food  he  withdrew  in  a  dignified 
manner  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  quite  mistake 
me!" 

Red  Riding-Hood  told  me  soon  afterwards,  in 
reply  to  persistent  questioning,  that  she  had  had  to 
part  with  him — a  great  sorrow,  poor  little  maid  ! 
She  has  many  brothers  and  sisters,  and  even  dogs 
have  mouths  when  the  weekly  wage  is  hardly  a 
"  living  "  one  for  a  family.  And  the  next  I  heard 
of  him  was  his  death.  Only  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
could  Red  Riding-Hood  tell  me  of  the  horrid 
disease  that  compelled  his  new  owners  to  shoot 
him,  and  this  tragic  explanation  of  his  disease — I 
240 


had  supposed  at  first  that  he  died  a  natural  death — 
she  did  not  give  me  until  we  attained  to  the 
intimacy  of  afternoon  tea  in  my  own  little  study, 
after  she  had  brought  me  dahlias,  velvet  dark  and 
golden  bright,  in  a  carefully  arranged  posy  of 
alternating  tints  from  her  own  cottage  garden. 

I  had  met  her  a  few  days  earlier  carrying  a  basket 
of  cabbages  that  looked  half  as  big  as  herself. 
When  I  took  it  out  of  her  hand  and  accompanied 
her  to  her  gate  she  merely  seemed  amused,  smiling 
more  rapturously  than  ever.  At  our  parting  I 
rather  fished  for  a  "  Thank  you "  ;  but  she  re- 
served that  till  the  afternoon,  when  she  brought 
the  flowers  to  accompany  her  sweet  dimples  and 
shining  eyes  as  an  expression  of  what  she  felt. 

The  labouring  people  in  our  lane  occasionally 
make  me  feel,  as  this  child  did,  that  in  matters  of 
neighbourly  friendship  my  methods  are  coarse  in 
comparison  with  their  delicacy  of  feeling. 


241 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LONDON  AND 
SOUTH-WESTERN  RAILWAY 

"  HE  just  said  good-night  to  me,  and  he  gave  me 
a  kiss,  and  said  he  was  coming  back  to  do  the 
garden.  But  when  he  got  to  work  an  express 
train  came  along  the  line  and  knocked  him  over, 
and  I  never  saw  him  again  alive."  A  grave,  fair- 
haired  little  girl  it  was  who,  sitting  beside  me  in 
the  matron's  bright, cosy  sitting-room  at  the  orphan- 
age— our  orphanage  par  excellence  at  Woking — thus 
summed  up  the  epoch  in  her  own  history  which 
had  opened  to  her  the  doors  of  orphanage  hospi- 
tality. It  was  told  quite  simply,  and  without  any 
emotional  pose,  though  by  no  means  without  a 
sense  of  its  heartrending  pathos,  a  certain  quiet 
dignity,  as  of  those  who  have  passed  through  deep 
sorrow  without  being  embittered.  The  little 
garden  had  sweet-peas  in  it,  I  learned- — one  of  the 
small  gardens  on  the  edge  of  the  line  near  the 
child's  home  at  Andover — and  there  leaped  to 
the  eyes  visions  of  the  home-life,  the  mother  and 
children  watching  eagerly  for  the  return  of  one 
whose  poor  broken  body  was  to  be  carried  back 
by  his  mates,  but  never  again  to  come  striding  up 
the  staircase  of  the  little  house  to  kiss  his  small 
daughter  good-night.  The  child  was  one  of  six 
little  girls,  of  whom  two  were  at  the  orphanage. 
I  had  been  interested  in  hearing  about  one  of  the 
boys  in  another  family,  whose  father  had  been  run 
down  by  an  express,  when  hastening  to  help  a  young 
242 


porter  in  difficulties  with  a  truck  of  luggage  which 
had  overbalanced  ;  therefore  the  matron  had  sent 
for  this  child  and  her  sister,  and  also  for  another  girl, 
one  of  ten  children,  whose  breadwinner  had  been 
killed  in  like  manner  while  cleaning  down  a  truck. 
We  think  much  of  the  great  catastrophes  that 
swallow  up  passengers,  but  too  little  perhaps  of 
the  yearly  toll  of  lives  among  brave  and  faithful 
public  servants  of  the  rank  and  file,  who  meet 
their  summons  as  a  matter  of  course  in  the 
ordinary  round  of  their  daily  tasks. 

Some  of  the  children  here  lost  their  fathers  in 
the  wrecks  of  the  St.  Hilda  and  the  Stella,  both  in 
the  company's  service;  others  in  ways  less  striking 
to  the  imagination,  but  not  less  sad  for  those  who 
are  left  behind. 

The  men  themselves  understand  well  enough 
the  uncertainties  and  perils  of  their  chosen  work, 
and  it  is  by  them  that  the  orphanage  is  mainly 
supported  and  managed, 

It  is  interesting  to  see  that  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  and  Lord  Meath  are  among  the  vice- 
presidents,  and  that  Lord  Aberdeen  heads  the  lists 
of  life-governors,  for  these  are  all  names  which 
carry  with  them  a  guarantee  of  efficiency  and  good 
faith,  as  apart  from  mere  title ;  but  it  is  more 
interesting  still  to  glance  through  the  names  on 
local  committees  throughout  that  part  of  the 
country  which  is  served  by  the  London  and  South- 
Western,  and  to  note  that  they  consist  largely  of 
very  lowly  workers  engaged  in  the  actual  drudgery 
of  the  railway.  In  making  this  honourable  pro- 
vision for  their  children,  it  was  perhaps  hardly 

243 


s  OF 

surprising  that  they  had  to  concentrate  upon 
obvious  necessities  rather  than  on  the  thought  of 
their  playtime.  The  excellent  bath-rooms,  first- 
rate  sanitation,  and  abundant  space  and  air  in  the 
sleeping-rooms,  might  well  put  to  shame  many  a 
public  school.  The  wise  arrangements  for  edu- 
cation and  the  apparent  capacity  and  humanity  of 
the  staff  may  account  for  the  individuality  and 
vigour  of  the  children,  and  the  happy  absence  of 
that  deadened  institutionalised  air  which  is  often 
so  depressing  where  children  are  herded  together 
in  a  large  "  home."  Nevertheless,  until  recently, 
there  had  been  one  serious  gap  in  the  beneficent 
plan  of  life — the  children  did  not  know  how  to 
play.  In  their  spare  time  they  sat  within  four 
walls  in  their  spacious  rooms,  without  books  or 
toys  or  occupations,  until  one  day  Mr.  Cecil  Smith 
opened  the  door  upon  them,  and  stood  aghast. at 
the  deadly  dulness  of  the  scene  before  him. 

His  visit  inaugurated  a  new  era,  for  he  never 
rested  until  he  had  not  only  collected  a  varied  and 
delightful  "children's  library"  and  provided  out- 
door and  indoor  games,  but  had  also  organised  the 
Children's  Fund,  of  which  the  working  expenses 
are  privately  met,  with  the  happy  result  that  every 
penny  subscribed  goes  to  benefit  these  orphan  boys 
and  girls. 

I  found  it  a  very  pretty  sight  to  watch  the 
children  drilling,  and  I  hear  that  Mr.  Cecil  Smith, 
"  the  Children's  Friend,"  as  their  annual  report 
names  him,  is  already  dreaming  of  a  gymnasium, 
where  such  training  will  be  extended  and  amplified 
directly  the  fund  allows  of  it.  I  need  hardly  say 
244 


-WSSrSRat  <I(AILW<Ar  CHILD^SN 

how  glad  he  will  be  to  give  full  particulars  of  all 
the  work  of  the  fund  to  any  one  who  writes  to  him 
at  the  orphanage,  where  he  is  continually  in  and 
out.  This  fund  maintains  and  equips  the  orphanage 
boy  scouts'  and  lads'  brigade,  arranges  small  enter- 
tainments and  lantern  lectures  given  monthly 
throughout  the  winter,  keeps  library  and  games  up 
to  the  mark,  making  good  the  necessary  wear  and 
tear,  and  providing  the  children  with  stationery, 
magazines,  and  prize  awards.  We  read  that  it  is 
proving  of  the  utmost  value,  and  is  sensibly  and 
carefully  administered.  It  has,  moreover,  given 
to  rooms  that  were  somewhat  bare  and  formal  a 
touch  of  home  and  of  the  varied  interests  in  which 
happy  school-fellows  and  comrades  may  take  part. 
Perhaps  as  we  whiz  by  on  the  railway  lines,  looking 
out  on  the  orphanage  and  remembering  that  it  is  a 
solid  monument  of  co-operative  thrift  on  the  part 
of  the  railway-men  to  whom  we  constantly  entrust 
our  lives,  we  may  well  ask  ourselves  whether  we 
owe  no  debt  either  to  the  children  of  our  hard- 
worked  brothers  or  to  Him  who  said  :  "  Inasmuch 
as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these, 
my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 


245 


FROM  A  COTTAGE  WINDOW 

STRAY  oak-leaves,  brown,  and  light  as  a  feather, 
still  now  and  then  whirl  one  by  one  past  my 
window,  but  for  the  most  part  the  trees  have 
already  lost  all  their  foliage  and  attained  to  the 
beauty  of  "  glorious  nakedness."  The  ivied  bank, 
that  overleans  the  other  side  of  the  lane  opposite 
my  little  sitting-room,  still  casts  a  shadow,  but 
the  two  ancient  trees  that  stand  guard  beside  it 
are  now  already  bare,  except  for  their  ivied  stems, 
and  the  unclothed  boughs  begin  to  leave  the  over- 
shadowed rooms  more  air  and  light.  The  swing- 
ing sign  of  the  little  inn  is  already  visible  in  the 
distance,  and,  beyond  it,  the  silvery  birches  and 
black  pines,  and  a  space  of  south-western  sky, 
whence  the  golden  sunsets  are  mirrored  from  the 
west  on  "  soft  "  evenings  and  the  stars  look  down 
in  blessing. 

The  dahlias  are  all  gone,  and  the  chrysanthemums 
— which  have  done  finely  this  year — will  soon  be 
following  them. 

By  strange  chance,  just  as  that  sentence  was  set 
down  on  paper  there  came  a  rhythmic  rat-tat  on 
the  cottage  door,  and  a  messenger  from  Hoe  Place 
brought — accompanied  by  a  basket  of  apples, 
themselves  a  picture — as  though  to  tell  me  that 
chrysanthemums  must  not  be  banished  before  their 
time,  a  great  bunch  of  the  beautiful  creatures, 
more  perfect,  in  their  air  of  stately  quietude  and 
lavish  yet  delicate  tints,  than  any  that  have  entered 
246 


FROM  <A  corr^fge 

my  room  this  season;  whole  sprays  of  snowy- 
white,  and  pink  things  of  paler  hue  on  the  under- 
side of  the  lovely  curling  petals — all  with  that 
graceful  drooping  curve  so  different  from  the 
rigidity  of  their  old-fashioned  forerunners — and 
others  of  pale  yellow,  a  clever  effect  in  the  colour- 
scheme,  leading  up  to  what  is  the  crowning  note 
of  the  harmony,  an  upright  blossom,  in  the  vivid 
gold  of  its  plume-like  aspect  much  like  a  colt's- 
foot,  side  by  side  with  a  cluster  of  prim  daisy- 
shaped  beauties  with  wide  yellow  bosses  rayed 
round  with  petals  of  sea-shell  pink,  a  sort  of 
glorified  Michaelmas  daisies.  There  they  all  are, 
looking  at  me  now  from  the  great  blue  and  white 
pot  that  was  the  gift  of  a  friend  just  come  back 
from  the  edge  of  the  "  Undiscovered  Country." 
And  if  they  were  not  grown  out  of  doors,  they 
are  still  unmistakable  chrysanthemums.  Against 
my  whitewashed  walls  and  the  black-brown  of  my 
stained  deal  bookshelves  they  are  superb.  There 
seems  to  have  been  a  convergence  of  gift-bringing 
influences  upon  this  spot  of  earth  to-day,  for  only 
half  an  hour  before,  the  village  policeman,  our 
chief  gardening  enthusiast  of  the  neighbourhood, 
whose  fairy  triangle  at  the  road-corner  is  bare  at 
last  of  all  its  fiery  blooms  and  has  been  patiently 
dug  over  for  the  winter,  came  modestly  to  the 
back  door  on  the  other  side  of  the  cottage  with 
a  great  handful  of  precious  bulbs,  and  we  had  a 
little  talk  about  the  slips  of  sweet-briar  that  had 
withered  in  the  summer  sun  through  being  set  too 
early :  November,  this  learned  man  tells  me,  is 
the  right  month. 

247 


OF 

The  gardens  just  now  have  a  very  appealing 
aspect ;  poor  Psyche  has  come  to  the  long  trial  of 
sorting  the  seeds,  and  soon  will  be  falling  asleep. 
But  the  skies  of  evening  look  down  with  miraculous 
beauty.  Never  are  sunsets  more  mystically  glorious 
than  when  the  golden  light  looks  through  the  bare 
tree-branches,  as  through  the  bars  of  some  heavenly 
window,  only  to  be  flashed  back  again  by  the 
depths  of  a  brimming  stream  brown  and  tranquil 
after  the  autumn  rains.  Down  at  Hoe  Place,  two 
days  ago,  just  such  a  sunset  as  that  looked  in 
through  the  wide  drawing-room  windows  as  I 
ceased  reading  that  fine  passage  from  Lord  Lytton's 
"  Letters "  in  which  he  sums  up  the  meaning  of 
tragedy  as  "  the  highest  expression  in  art  of  that 
which  in  life  itself  .  .  .  compels  us  to  understand, 
not  as  an  abstract  proposition,  but  as  a  truth 
delivered  through  our  strongest  emotions,  that 
Divine  justice  is  not  concerned  about  bringing 
things  to  a  comfortable  conclusion  at  the  end  of 
this  poor  little  five-act  play  of  ours — that  its  theatre 
is  Infinity,  and  its  last  word  here  '  Beyond.' " 

It  is  a  good  message  to  have  by  heart  before 
those  benumbing  days  come  of  which  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges  writes  : 

"  The  long  dark  night,  that  lengthens  slow, 
Deepening  with  Winter  to  starve  grass  and  tree, 
And  soon  to  bury  in  snow 

The  Earth,  that,  sleeping  'neath  her  frozen  stole, 
Shall  dream  a  dream  crept  from  the  sunless  pole 
Of  how  her  end  shall  be." 

But  in  the  darkening  days  the  birds  just  now 
248 


FROM  c/f  corr^ge 

are  full  of  charm  to  eye  and  ear.  We  are  only 
twenty-four  miles  from  London.  In  the  morning 
yesterday  I  watched  the  quiet  little  grey-bosomed 
bird  that  was  tame  enough  to  sit  on  the  leafless 
topmost  twig  of  my  little  plum-tree,  looking  in 
through  my  upper  window,  about  half  a  yard  from 
my  observing  eyes,  as  I  listened  to  the  fluting, 
Mozart-like  melodies  of  a  hidden  robin ;  and  in 
the  afternoon,  as  I  crossed  Waterloo  Bridge,  I 
gazed  on  the  restless  sea-gulls,  making  poetry  with 
their  great  white  wings,  hovering  and  sweeping 
above  the  dark  river.  On  the  return  journey  the 
birds  had  gone,  but  a  new  token  of  hope  had  taken 
their  place,  for  the  lights  above  the  Southern  Wharf 
were  golden  in  the  autumn  mist  and  made  a  glowing, 
burning  radiance  in  the  Thames  below.  And  there 
came  back  to  me  the  words  of  a  brave  symbolist 
whom  I  knew  in  my  youth,  an  arch-heretic  whose 
fame  is  now  blazoned  by  the  orthodox  forces  that 
cursed  him  before  they  built  his  tomb,  and  I 
murmured  to  myself  those  lines  of  Thomas  Toke 
Lynch  that  are  welcome  with  the  coming  of  winter  : 

"  While  the  root,  locked  in  slumber  fast, 
Rests  through  the  weary  winter-tide, 
The  world  speeds  on,  that  God  at  last 

His  summer's  heartsease  may  provide, 
And  all  love's  tender  prophecies 
In  tenderer  blooms  may  realise." 


249 


HIS  SOLILOQUY 

(A  "Dramatic  Lyric) 

HUSH  !  it  is  night, 
And  the  stars 

Look  down  thro'  the  prison-bars 
That  hold  us  a  world  apart — 
You  in  the  infinite  light,  I  in  my  darkened  heart. 
Is  there  a  gulf  we  may  cross 

To  win  a  moment  again, 
You  to  your  terrible  loss,  I  to  my  exquisite  pain  ? 

Is  there  a  gulf  we  may  cross, 
Or  has  our  love  been  in  vain  ? — 
I  live  for  you,  die  for  you,  daily,  you  who  are 

pure  and  good  ! 
But  not  with  a  touch  will  I  stain 

Your  flower-white  womanhood, 
I  who  have  soiled  my  life,  soiled  and  spoiled  my 

life, 

While  you,  in  the  sun  and  rain — 
The  joy,  the  sorrow,  the  strife — 
Unfolded  your  lily-bloom 

With  its  midmost  golden  dart. 
Ah,  no  !     We  are  worlds  apart. 
Yet  even  here  in  the  night, 

In  a  life  that's  a  prison-room  ; 
You,  the  child  of  the  light, 

You  dwell  in  my  darkened  heart, 
Heaven  in  the  hell  of  my  doom. 


250 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

IN  a  candid  and  deeply  interesting  memoir  Mr. 
William  Michael  Rossetti  has  brought  home 
to  us  with  added  tenderness  and  reality  the 
vision  of  "  a  soul  as  pure,  duteous,  concentrated, 
loving,  and  devoted  as  ever  uttered  itself  in  prose 
or  verse."  These  words,  from  the  closing  sentence 
in  which  Mr.  Rossetti  sums  up  his  tribute  to  that 
sister  of  whom  he  had  such  intimate  and  lifelong 
knowledge,  come  as  a  relief  to  the  pent-up  admira- 
tion of  his  readers  at  the  end  of  this  memoir,  a 
finished  and  impressive  monograph,  beautiful  with 
such  homely  and  untold  reverence  as  forbids  any 
language  not  simple,  any  overstrained  or  self- 
conscious  adornment. 

These  pages  enhance  our  knowledge  of  Christina 
Rossetti's  devotion  to  her  kindred — most  of  all  to 
her  mother — and  in  all  the  details  of  her  daily  life, 
as  well  as  in  the  moving  story  of  her  earthly  love, 
here  for  the  first  time  fully  told — a  love  not  with- 
out its  heavenly  joys  and  qualities  even  in  re- 
nouncement— they  are  a  continual  attestation,  an 
attestation  not  needed  and  yet  delightful,  to  the 
profound  sincerity  of  her  devotional  poems. 
Built  in  the  Living  Rock  and  smitten  to  the  inner- 
most depths,  her  life  was  "  hid  with  Christ  in 
God,"  and  that  which  she  gave  so  freely  to  the 
world  was  itself  a  Divine  gift,  an  overflowing 
energy  of  faith  and  love,  sometimes  thrilled  through 
and  through  with  the  very  bitterness  of  grief,  yet 

251 


OF 

quick  with  praise  through  all  suffering,  and  spring- 
ing ever  from  that  Source  of  joy  which  she  knew 
to  be  at  the  heart  of  pain.  It  is  sometimes 
childlike  in  its  rippling  happiness  of  kinship  with 
birds  and  beasts  and  children,  but  at  other  times, 
and  much  more  frequently,  it  is  dazzling  in  its 
leaping  purity  and  rainbow-tinted  sacrificial  passion 
as  it  triumphs  over  all  obstacles  on  its  way  to  the 
great  deep,  and  not  seldom  it  is  when  touched  with 
sorrow  that  it  is  most  full  of  mystic  healing  and 
cleansing  power.  Do  we  not  all  come  thirsting  to 
dip  our  tiny  cups  in  it  and  bless  this  well-spring  of 
living  water  springing  up  unto  eternal  life  ? 

Christina  Rossetti's  deep  and  fastidious  veracity 
added  the  final  note  of  distinction  to  her  most 
enduring  verse,  verse  of  which  the  word  "  dis- 
tinction "  may  be  used  in  a  special  and  primary 
sense,  for  she  is  so  " distinct  in  individualities" 
that  to  class  her  with  others,  even  the  greatest, 
would  be  to  lose  sight  of  one  of  her  most  striking 
attributes  ;  and  especially,  perhaps,  of  her  religious 
poems  is  this  true.  Here  and  there  we  may  be 
reminded  of  her  in  Richard  Crashaw's  "  Shepherds' 
Hymn "  and  his  "  Saint  Teresa "  poems,  or  in 
Christopher  Smart's  splendid  "  Song  to  David," 
and  to  name  her  with  Henry  Vaughan,  George 
Herbert,  and  William  Blake,  is  to  do  honour  to 
them  as  truly  as  to  her  ;  but  no  one  who  is  in- 
timate with  her  singing  is  likely  to  mistake  it  for 
theirs,  or  for  any  but  her  own.  To  take  rank 
with  such  poets  as  these  on  the  one  hand,  and 
with  the  greatest  singers  of  the  nineteenth  century 
on  the  other,  is  to  hold  a  high  and  immortal  place ; 
252 


yet  the  absolute  spontaneity  of  Christina  Rossetti's 
symbolism,  the  sense  of  sweet  surprise  and  in- 
evitableness  in  her  cadences,  as  of  a  nightingale's 
improvisation,  with  nevertheless  that  just  economy 
of  language  and  metaphor  characteristic  of  what  is 
final  and  unfathomable  in  feeling,  must  make  her 
appeal  a  wider  and  more  varied  one  than  that  of 
the  Silurist  or  the  author  of  "  The  Temple "  ; 
while  for  melody  and  passion,  so  married  as  to  be 
absolutely  one,  in  such  poems  as  "  The  Convent 
Threshold,"  "A  Royal  Princess,"  and  "The 
Prince's  Progress,"  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a 
lyrist  beside  whom  one  need  fear  to  name  her, 
whether  among  living  writers  or  the  mighty  dead 
who  preceded  them. 

In  criticising  this  volume  of  her  "  poetical  works  " 
from  childhood  upwards,  no  one  can  fail  to  ad- 
mit that  its  contents  are  extraordinarily  unequal, 
both  in  outward  music  and  in  inward  quality  ;  but 
to  say  that  she  numbers  among  her  enthusias- 
tic admirers  that  great  master  of  melody,  who 
wrote  that  "consummate  mastery  of  [the  poet's] 
instrument "  is  "  the  one  indispensable  test  of 
poetic  triumph,"  is  to  give  a  high  authority  indeed 
for  the  perfection  of  her  workmanship  at  its  best. 
Yet  for  her  work  the  word  "  workmanship  "  seems 
misleading;  when  that  work  is  most  perfect  it 
bears  rather  the  impress  of  a  transcendent  and 
irresistible  creation  than  of  any  clumsier  process. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  two  brief  lyrics  by  which 
she  is  perhaps  most  widely  known — "  When  I  am 
dead,  my  dearest,"  and  "  Does  the  road  wind  up- 
hill all  the  way  ? " — who  shall  analyse  their  haunt- 

253 


OF 

ing  and  satisfying  beauty,  except  to  say  that  their 
soul  and  body  are  absolutely  one,  and  their  bareness 
of  redundant  loveliness,  in  word  or  image,  the 
crowning  loveliness  of  all  ?  In  contradistinction 
from  these  in  its  flowing  wealth  of  measure  and 
imagery,  though  less  inscrutable  in  charm,  is  the 
"  Amor  Mundi."  It  is  interwoven  throughout 
with  echoing  rhymes  and  cunning  assonances  and 
timely  roughnesses  of  deterrent  sound  ;  all  breath- 
ing the  symbolism  of  a  deeper  music  than  that  of 
any  audible  human  voices.  It  is  almost  trite  to 
say  that  Christina  Rossetti  had  her  limitations,  but 
it  may  be  added  that,  by  a  kind  of  proud  humility 
— if  the  paradox  be  permitted — she  seems  to  have 
recognised  them,  and  never  attempted  to  pass 
beyond  them  into  regions  not  her  own.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  her  brother  at  once  arrests  our  attention  and 
probably  wins  our  acquiescence,  when  in  writing 
elsewhere  of  Augusta  Webster's  finest  play,  which 
was  greatly  admired  by  Christina  Rossetti,  he  says 
of  the  latter  :  "  The  very  suggestion  of  her  writing 
any  tragedy,  much  more  any  such  tragedy  as  '  The 
Sentence/  would  be  preposterous." 

"  Goblin  Market "  is  a  marvel  of  subtle  music 
and  of  outpoured  sunshine  and  colour,  its  "  fine 
fairy-lore  "  all  brimming  with  such  stuff  as  goes 
to  the  making  of  mortal  suffering  and  heroic 
tenderness  ;  but  it  may  well  indicate  something  of 
the  width  of  the  poet's  range  to  compare  its  un- 
fettered methods,  as  of  some  heavenly  intuition, 
with  the  very  diverse  rhythms  of  her  other  and 
even  greater  poems  more  restricted  in  form,  such 
as  "  The  Convent  Threshold  "  already  named,  of 
254 


which  Mrs.  Meynell  has  said  the  supreme  and 
incomparable  word  of  uttermost  praise. 

No  woman  who  is  familiar  with  Christina 
Rossetti's  poems  can  read  her  life,  without  a  con- 
viction that  the  agony  of  renunciation,  to  so 
intense  and  passionate  a  nature,  deepened  the 
inspiration  of  what  was  highest  and  most  searching 
in  her  power. 

Among  her  Christmas  verses  it  is  impossible 
not  to  love  the  childlike  gladness  and  exquisite 
simplicity  of  such  carols  as  the  one  beginning 
"  The  Shepherds  had  an  Angel,"  and  the  still  more 
beautiful  one  which  includes  the  lines  : 

"  What  can  I  give  Him, 

Poor  as  I  am  ? 
If  I  were  a  shepherd 
I  would  bring  a  lamb." 

Yet  it  is  probably  not  to  these  carols  that  a  sorrow- 
ful world  will  turn  most  often,  but  rather  to  the 
delicate  reserve  and  divine  hope  of  such  lyrics  as 
tc  My  love  whose  heart  is  tender,"  the  pleading  of 
the  Man  of  Sorrows  in  "  Despised  and  Rejected,'' 
the  glorious  inspiration  of  "Advent,"  the  humility 
and  trust  of  "  Sursum  Corda,"  and  of  that  wonder- 
ful double  "  Sonnet  of  Sonnets,"  "  Later  Life,"  or 
to  such  poems  as  the  one  which  holds  the  lines  : 

"  Not  in  this  world  of  hope  deferred, 
This  world  of  perishable  stuff." 

If  space  were  less  limited,  it  would  be  interesting 
to  compare  the  widely  varying  genius  of  women 
already  gone  from  our  midst  who  have  written 

255 


OF 

enduring  poetry  in  the  bygone  century — all  lifting 
their  gift  high  above  stain,  all  strong  in  their  fervour 
of  womanliness,  brave  with  the  plain-spoken  courage 
of  a  holy  and  untarnished  goodness ;  all,  in  their 
life  as  well  as  in  their  song,  "  true  to  the  kindred 
points  of  Heaven  and  Home."  In  their  art  they 
differed  widely,  but  the  greatest  of  them  have  at 
least  one  memorable  gift  in  common,  inasmuch  as 
they  have  left  us  sonnets  not  easily  to  be  surpassed. 
With  one  such  sonnet  by  Christina  Rossetti,  cha- 
racteristic in  its  white  fire  of  love  and  faith,  this 
short  causerie  must  end.  It  is  one  of  the  "  Monna 
Innominata  "  series : 

"  If  I  could  trust  mine  own  self  with  your  fate, 
Shall  not  I  rather  trust  it  in  God's  hand, 
Without  Whose  Will  one  lily  doth  not  stand, 

Nor  sparrow  fall  at  his  appointed  date  ; 
Who  numbereth  the  innumerable  sand, 

Who  weighs  the  wind  and  water  with  a  weight, 

To  Whom  the  world  is  neither  small  nor  great, 
Whose    knowledge    foreknew  every  plan  we 
planned. 

Searching  my  heart  for  all  that  touches  you, 
I  find  there  only  love  and  love's  goodwill 

Helpless  to  help  and  impotent  to  do, 

Of  understanding  dull,  of  sight  most  dim  ; 
And  therefore  I  commend  you  back  to  Him 
Whose  love  your  love's  capacity  can  fill." 


256 


THE  IDEAL  WOMAN  AS 
WORDSWORTH  AND 
SHELLEY  SAW  HER 

IT  is  not  surprising  that  poets  of  such  opposite 
temperament  and  divergent  ethics  as  W<~vdsworth 
and  Shelley  should  both  alike  have  drawn  for  us  a 
vision  of  womanhood  in  which  each  poet  is  com- 
pletely in  accord  with  the  other.  There  are  truths 
so  fundamental  and  convincing  in  their  primary 
importance  that,  although  they  may  be  coloured 
by  the  mind  that  reflects  them,  as  though  one 
showed  the  rose-coloured  and  the  other  the  violet 
or  the  gold,  they  appeal  to  all  alike  in  proportion 
to  the  vividness  with  which  they  are  presented. 
And  in  moments  of  transient  agitation  or  political 
stress,  it  is  salutary  to  turn  to  such  primary  realities, 
on  a  day  of  party  conflict  to  think  the  more  of 
Imperial  responsibilities,  and  duties  in  which  wider 
issues  are  involved,  and  in  the  clamour  between 
suffragists  and  anti-suffragists  to  look  for  an  instant 
at  those  high  aims  and  ideals  which  both  alike 
recognise  and  acclaim — to  forget  for  an  hour  what 
women  should  do  and  have,  in  the  thought  of  what 
women  should  be.  That  one  prosaic  couplet  in 
Wordsworth's  beautiful  poem  to  his  wife  in  which 
he  tells  us, 

"  And  now  I  see,  with  eye  serene, 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine," 

is    finely    suggestive    of  that    inner    power    and 

R  257 


OF 

guidance  which  befit  a  being  described  in  the  two 
lines  which  follow  as  "  a  traveller  between  life  and 
death,"  and  is  at  one  with  Shelley's  more  quietistic 
image  of  a  "  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness." 
In  neither  is  the  source  of  beauty  and  of  joy  to 
remain  unshared,  though  its  inmost  sanctity  lie  deep 
and  unrevealed.  That  "  pulse  "  of  radiant  being 
which  controls  and  inspires 

"  The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill," 

is  in  Wordsworth's  poem  the  very  pivot  on  which 
turn  all  holy  and  tender  activities,  all  patient  and 
lowly  domestic  joys — is,  indeed,  the  very  mainspring 
of  life  in 

"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort  and  command." 

That  "  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness  "  of 
which  Shelley  sings  in  "Episychidion"  is  no  treasure 
of  self-centred  brooding  ;  for  he  tells  us  in  the  very 
next  line  that  it  "vanquishes  dissonance  and  gloom," 
and,  lest  even  that  should  not  be  clear  enough,  he 
adds  that  his  ideal  is  not  a  Star  which  moves  alone 
in  the  moving  heavens,  but  is  as  a  smile  among 
frowns,  a  gentle  tone  amid  rude  voices ;  and  then 
he  crowns  the  whole  passage  with  that  consummate 
line,  still  descriptive  of  all  that  a  restless  world 
should  find  in  the  sanctuary  of  a  woman's  soul : 

"  A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight." 

That  "  well "  is  to  be  filled  with  the  sunbeams  of 
the  eternal — 

258 


rne 

"  The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever  leap 
Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul — too  deep 
For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or  sense." 

Sidney  Dobell  said  that  goodness  in  a  woman  was 
not  enough — it  must  be  beautiful  goodness.  This 
is  not  the  place  to  discuss  that*  wonderful  inter- 
mingling in  our  day  of  the  religious  traditions  of 
the  East  and  of  the  West  which  reveal  beneath  the 
ancient  symbols  of  both  the  same  everlasting 
mysteries,  but  there  is  one  part  of  the  teaching 
which  he  who  runs  may  read — teaching  which  is 
confirmed  by  the  discoveries  of  the  scientist,  as 
well  as  by  the  experience  of  the  obedient  spirit  in 
man.  It  is  the  simple  fact  that  the  vital  force 
which  shapes  the  universe  and  moulds  the  lives  of 
men  has  entrusted  to  Woman  the  first  pre-natal 
guardianship  of  the  highest  form  of  perceptible  life 
upon  this  planet.  And  it  may  be  that,  as  compen- 
sation to  the  many  women  to  whom  this  highest 
grace  is  not  accorded,  the  privilege  of  sacrificial 
service  may  make  of  them  also,  in  Shelley's  words, 

"A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to 

play 
Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day." 

The  world  has  advanced  beyond  that  barbarous  day 
in  which  those  who  preferred  the  hardships  of  lone- 
liness to  the  second  best  of  a  marriage  imperfectly 
mated,  were  ridiculed  as  the  wastrels  of  womanly 
ambition,  and  the  great  army  of  women-workers 
grows  yearly  happier  in  the  honest  comradeship  of 
earnest-minded  men.  In  this  world  of  joy  and 

259 


OF 

sorrow  and  continual  combat,  voluntary  and 
efficient  work  stands  second  only  to  love,  as  a 
means  of  strength  and  solace,  if  only  it  be  not 
work  so  mechanical  or  brutalising,  or  beyond  the 
powers  of  the  worker,  as  to  involve  on  the  one 
hand  the  deadening  of  faculty  or  on  the  other  the 
overstrain  of  nervous  power. 

Men  desire  to  save  women  from  both  these 
extremes,  but  under  present  conditions  it  is  often 
beyond  a  possibility. 

They  desire  also  with  a  passion,  not  the  less  deep 
because  it  is  often  inarticulate,  to  find  in  women  a 
breath  of  the  spiritual  repose  and  intellectual 
quietude,  which  can  only  be  attained  by  those  who 
determinately  secure,  in  the  midst  of  a  bustling 
and  overcrowded  age,  a  practice  of  inward  medita- 
tion with  its  enshrining  silence,  in  which  the  Truth 
can  be  heard  and  character  be  calmed  and 
strengthened,  for  that  daily  ordeal  in  which  it  may 
be  said  of  every  noble  life,  as  Wordsworth  said  of 
Milton,  that  its  soul  "  the  lowliest  duties  on  itself 
doth  lay." 


260 


FOR  THE  COMMON  CAUSE 

[A  Dramatic  Study] 

NOT  for  ourselves,  O  God,  but  those  poor  things 
Who  have  no  time  or  strength  to  grow  their  wings 
And  needs  must  crawl  in  dust  the  whole  day  long 
To  make  their  fellow-creatures  rich  and  strong— 
For  women  fair  as  flowers,  all  choked  in  filth 
That  will  enrich  some  other's  garden-tilth  ! 

Give  us  a  voice,  ten  thousand  voices,  God, 
That  we  may  be  for  them  Thy  staff  and  rod, 
And  never  rest  in  helping  Thy  brave  men 
To  cleanse  the  sins  of  this  Augean  den, 
Till  all  the  Empire,  whereof  we  are  part, 
Holds  no  more  hells,  but  is  love's  Home   and 
Heart ! 

Help  us  to  help  the  children,  give  us  grace 
To  adorn  all  workrooms,  light  each  darkened  place, 
And,  by  the  shrewdness  of  a  woman's  wit, 
Helping  the  forces  of  all  manly  grit, 
Unlock  the  doors  that  now  are  shut  so  fast 
Till  law  and  liberty  join  hands  at  last. 

On  us,  on  us,  is  laid  the  heavy  load 

Of  standing  by  to  see  a  cruel  goad 

Plunged  deep  each  day  in  other  women's  flesh — 

To  see  Thy  wounds  bleed  every  day  afresh  ! 

Increase  our  humbleness,  increase  our  powers, 

That  we  may  fill  the  wilderness  with  flowers — 

261 


OF 

That  all  the  desert  where  thy  millions  lie 

Half  choked  with  earth  and  toiling  lest  they  die, 

May  wake  and  blossom  like  one  heavenly  rose 

That  shall  its  sweetness  out  of  earth  unclose, 

And  all  the  world's  unutterable  pain 

At  last,  at  last,  O  God,  be  not  in  vain  ! — 

This  do  we  ask,  tho'  we  thereby  be  slain. 


262 


A  RECURRENT  QUESTION 

IF  we  mistake  not,  it  was  Sir  John  Cockburn, 
whose  views  upon  one  aspect  of  the  fiscal  question 
have  recently  been  much  quoted,  who,  some  years 
ago,  opened  a  discussion  in  London  Opinion  on  a 
subject  hardly  less  complicated,  though  at  the  first 
glance  perhaps  less  controversial  and  more  ob- 
viously suited  to  these  pages  :  the  question  whether 
emigration  is  desirable  for  women.  Excellent 
common  sense  distinguished  many  of  the  letters 
contributed. 

"  Youth  and  health  and  capacity  ot  endurance 
they  should  have  as  capital  to  start  with,"  wrote 
one  of  those  who  entered  on  the  debate.  In  this 
she  agreed  with  another  and  even  more  forcible 
correspondent,  who,  unlike  herself,  believed  that 
the  outlook  for  middle-aged  women  in  England 
promised  a  severe  struggle  for  existence,  much 
more  severe  competitively  than  in  Canada  and  the 
States,  but  who  added  that 

44  The  Englishwoman  who  thinks  of  emigrating 
should  have  at  least  ^50  as  capital ;  but,  above  all, 
she  should  satisfy  herself  that  she  has  the  three 
essential  qualities  for  Canadian  and  American  life. 
She  must  have  :  (i)  A  sound  physique  to  stand  the 
strain  of  extremes  in  climate  and  the  c  rush '  of 
American  business  life  ;  (2)  an  adaptable  tempera- 
ment which  will  not  fret  and  fume  because  things  in 
Kansas  or  Winnipeg  are  not  as  they  are  in  Clapham 

263 


OF 

or  Nottingham  ;  and  (3)  a  plucky  soul  to  help  her 
to  face  any  initial  adversities." 

Mr.  Havelock  Ellis  wrote  that  in  the  four  years 
which  he  spent  in  "  one  of  the  most  prosperous  of 
our  colonies  "  he  knew 

"  many  women  who  had  come  out  from  the 
Home  Country;  some  were  happy,  others  not.  It 
may  be  said  of  women,"  he  observed,  "  as  of 
men,  that  those  who  succeed  here  will  probably 
succeed  still  better  in  the  Colonies  ;  those  who  fail 
here  will  fail  still  worse  there." 

He  summed  up  a  cogent  and  illuminating  letter 
with  a  reminder  that 

"As  regards  the  Colonies  as  a  cure  for  moral 
infirmities,  [we  must]  not  forget  the  saying  of  the 
wise  Roman  that  they  who  run  across  the  sea 
change  their  climate,  but  do  not  change  their  souls." 

In  this  he  was  at  one  with  the  correspondent 
quoted  above,  who  said  bluntly  and  sensibly  : 

"  Girls  who  contemplate  emigrating  merely  in 
search  of  husbands,  girls  who  are  afraid  of  genuine 
hard  work,  girls  who  fancy  that  life  was  meant  for 
pleasure  only,  girls  who  have  merely  a  smattering 
of  music  or  a  capacity  for  giggling  as  their  social 
accomplishments — all  these  girls  ought  to  stay  at 
home.  They  are  better  off  in  England,  not 
because  England  needs  them  or  appreciates  them, 
but  because  young  and  rapidly  developing  countries 
will  not  harbour  deadheads." 
264 


It  may  be  mere  platitudinarian  commonplace  to 
labour  the  point  that  happiness  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  word  is  dependent  upon  character 
rather  than  environment.  That  is  self-evident. 
But  it  would  also  be  a  very  shallow  and  dangerous 
touch  of  cant  to  ignore  the  equally  self-evident  fact 
that  in  many  environments  such  happiness  will 
always  include  a  large  element  of  conquered  pain. 

Mere  exercise  of  faculty,  for  instance,  is  often 
a  legitimate  delight  which  in  some  directions 
many  women  have  to  renounce,  and  those  of  us  to 
whom  this  source  of  enjoyment  lies  open  would  be 
Pharisaical  indeed  if,  being  unshackled  ourselves,  we 
were  to  write  or  speak  in  such  a  way  as  to  bind  on 
the  shoulders  of  others  burdens  too  heavy  to  be 
borne.  We  shall  do  well  to  remember  that  even 
in  the  twentieth  century  there  are  many  homes  where 
the  strongest  capabilities  and  gifts,  possessed  by 
one  or  more  of  those  who  dwell  about  the  hearth, 
are  quietly  stifled  or  surrendered,  in  the  spirit  of 
a  noble  loyalty  and  obedience,  and  sometimes  also, 
it  must  be  confessed,  through  a  weak  desire  to 
give  to  those  most  loved,  not  so  much  what  they 
need  or  what  is  good  for  them,  as  what  they 
exactingly  and  unjustifiably  claim. 

How  can  the  women  we  have  in  mind  be  best 
helped  to  freedom  and  usefulness  by  release  from 
those  cramping  grooves  and  circles,  in  which  there 
is  a  wasteful  sacrifice  of  faculty,  even  though  their 
initial  readiness  to  waste  themselves  in  a  moral 
treadmill  has  had  in  it  elements  of  great  nobleness 
and  supreme  love  ?  There  are  homes  where  four 
or  five  daughters,  all  middle-aged  women,  will 

265 


OF  3*3088 

continue  to  starve  themselves  in  body  and  soul 
rather  than  grieve  some  near  and  dear  relation — 
father  or  mother,  or  elder  brother,  it  may  be — by 
breaking  the  family  tradition  and  saying  frankly, 
"  We  are  poor,  we  must  divide.  Our  parents  shall 
be  tenderly  cared  for  always,  but  that  can  in  reality 
be  better  done  if  we  do  not  all  herd  together ;  there 
must  be  division  of  labour ;  some  of  us  will  stay, 
some  of  us  will  go." 

In  some  such  cases  the  suggestion  of  emigration 
may  undoubtedly  lessen  the  difficulty  of  such  a 
rupture,  for  there  are  many  parents  and  guardians 
who  will  listen  to  that  particular  appeal,  but  who 
would  be  deaf  to  the  idea  of  an  independent  pro- 
fessional career  for  their  daughters  or  their  wards 
in  England.  And,  indeed,  it  does  appear  that 
emigration  may  in  some  instances  offer  a  healthier 
and  more  natural  field  for  women  than  much  of 
the  over-strenuous  tension  of  our  great  English 
towns.  Only  there  is  always  the  question,  "  Who 
is  the  woman  and  where  does  she  purpose  going  ?  " 
If  she  is  unhandy,  vacillating,  prejudiced,  weak,  the 
most  ignorant  of  us  can  perceive  that  she  may  cross 
the  seas  only  to  deepen  her  own  misery  and  create 
new  misery  for  others.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  she 
is  capable,  prompt,  and — in  the  deepest  and  widest 
sense  of  the  word — womanly,  then,  if  she  be 
equipped  also  with  health  and  abundant  vitality, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  for  her  a  wide  and 
delightful  kingdom.  Yet  even  for  such  a  woman 
as  this,  and  granting  that  she  goes  forth  unpledged 
and  free  of  soul — without  which  proviso  there  may 
be  good  material  for  tragedy — yet  even  for  her 
266 


the  outlook  is  more  complicated  than  might  at  first 
be  supposed.  It  may  be  true  that  she  will  command 
a  higher  income  than  in  the  British  Islands,  though 
frequently  expenses  will  be  higher  also  ;  but,  as 
regards  marriage,  the  risks  may  be  multiplied  rather 
than  lessened,  for  the  mere  fact  of  a  superfluity  of 
men  in  the  Colonies  is  but  one  factor  in  the  problem, 
and  occasionally  a  very  deceptive  one  ;  it  does  not 
by  any  means  follow  that  the  woman  who  has  grown 
up  under  quite  other  surroundings,  and  suddenly 
comes  into  their  midst,  will  find  among  them  her 
true  mate.  They  have  been  educated,  perhaps, 
under  conditions  quite  alien  to  her  own  life,  these 
men,  and  the  noblest  of  them — so  weak  is  human 
nature — may  fail  to  touch  her  heart,  even  if  they 
wish  to  win  her — a  wish  that  the  mere  fact  of  their 
majority  in  point  of  numbers  does  not  always  make 
a  foregone  conclusion.  The  comradeship  offered 
may  be  healthy,  inspiriting,  delightful ;  but,  because 
wives  are  needed,  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the 
emigrant's  own  small  round  of  acquaintance — a 
round  limited,  in  some  instances,  by  the  isolation 
of  "  up-country"  life,  or  of  a  small  provincial 
settlement — will  include  the  man  who  can  uplift 
her — that  one  individual  woman  in  particular — to 
the  ideal  wifehood  and  motherhood  which  might 
seem  likely  best  to  complete  and  ripen  all  that  is 
finest  in  her.  There  are  men  in  our  colonies  who 
are  strong,  chivalrous,  upright— the  very  salt  of 
the  earth.  But  is  it  not  equally  true  that  the 
wastrel  and  the  hollow-hearted,  the  tinsel  that  is 
not  gold,  may  not  seldom  have  been  shipped  there 
as  a  last  resource  ?  Good  and  bad,  coarse  and  fine, 

267 


OF 

will  be  found  there,  as  here,  among  the  men  as  well 
as  among  the  women,  and  many,  doubtless,  all  the 
world  over,  who  are  a  little  of  both. 

If  it  were  certain  that  a  happy  marriage  or  a 
successful  career  would  await  even  nine-tenths  ot 
the  women  likely  to  emigrate,  then,  indeed,  who  is 
there  among  us  who  would  not  hurry  her  sisters 
down  to  the  ships  ?  But  it  is  not  so  simple,  though 
doubtless  the  risks  may  often  be  amply  worth  taking. 
In  other  words,  the  question  of  emigration  for 
women  is  one  which  cannot  be  answered  in  general 
terms,  but  must  be  carefully  weighed  and  inquired 
into  in  each  particular  instance.  And  as  for  the 
deep,  underlying  joy  and  peace  which  may  make 
any  woman's  life  beautiful,  whether  in  youth  or 
age,  these  are  not  dependent  on  latitude  and  longi- 
tude, or  even  on  social  and  professional  liberty,  but 
on  surrender,  moment  by  moment,  to  the  guidance 
of  the  Highest. 


268 


SNOW-WHITE 

AMID  the  dazzling  whiteness  now  surrounding  my 
cottage,  weighing  down  the  branches  of  the  tall 
pines  that  make  a  charming  bit  of  woodland  across 
the  roadway,  I  think  of  the  magic  wrought  on  far- 
away buildings,  transmuting  all  grimy  and  squalid 
outlines  to  peaceful  splendour,  and  I  turn  to  those 
wondrous  lines  of  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  which 
describe  a  snowfall  in  London  : 

"  When  men  were  all  asleep  the  snow  came  flying, 

In  large  white  flakes  falling  on  the  city  brown, 

Stealthily  and   perpetually  settling    and   loosely 


Hushing    the    latest   traffic    of    the    drowsy 

town; 

Deadening,  muffling,  stifling  its  murmurs  failing  ; 

Lazily  and  incessantly  floating  down  and  down  : 

Silently  sifting  and  veiling  road,  roof,  and  railing  ; 

Hiding  difference,  making  unevenness  even, 
Into    angles    and    crevices   softly    drifting    and 

sailing. 

All  night  it  fell,  and  when  full  inches  seven 
It  lay  in  the  depth  of  its  uncompacted  lightness, 
The  clouds  blew  off  from  a  high  and  frosty 

heaven  ; 
And   all   woke   earlier    for    the    unaccustomed 

brightness 

Of  the  winter  dawning,  the  strange  unheavenly 
glare  : 

269 


OF 

The  eye  marvelled — marvelled  at  the  dazzling 

whiteness ; 

The  ear  hearkened  to  the  stillness  of  the  solemn 
air." 

The  outward  universe  is,  as  man  knows  it,  one 
vast  symbolic  scroll,  of  meaning  too  deep  to  be 
uttered  ;  and  if  we  turn  symbols  to  hackneyed  uses, 
that  is  the  fault  of  our  platitudes  and  not  of  the 
great  original.  The  '"  stillness  of  the  solemn  air," 
that  almost  always  accompanies  the  newly  fallen 
snow,  is  one  attraction  of  that  particular  hiero- 
glyph, as  though  it  were  the  stainless  peace  of 
an  unutterable  purity,  and  when  the  sky  overhead 
is  of  that  radiant,  unfathomable  blueness,  which, 
to  our  cousins  across  the  Atlantic,  is  the  familiar 
background  to  such  a  foreground  as  this,  and 
even  here  in  England  is  now  and  again  vouch- 
safed, then  the  great  page  of  the  illuminated 
missal  is  easy  to  read.  If  there  be  added,  in  lady's 
redingote  or  the  "  pink "  of  a  huntsman,  that 
touch  of  scarlet  that  the  Queen  in  the  old  fairy- 
tale of  Snowdrop  beheld  in  the  white  snow  when 
she  pricked  her  thimble-finger,  then  indeed  the 
supremacy  of  contrast  is  a  splendour  not  easily  for- 
gotten. But  even  without  the  blue  and  the  scarlet, 
the  celestial  whiteness  of  the  untrodden  snow  has, 
like  the  first  brave  snowdrop,  a  message  for  every 
childlike  heart,  a  message  that  is  only  less  moving 
than  the  sight  of  a  snowy  cloud  sailing  silently 
across  the  midsummer  sky,  or  the  fragrant  star  of 
a  Mary-lily  in  the  June  sunshine. 

Is  it  not  a  priceless  symbol  and  possession,  a  bit 
270 


of  knowledge  which  every  man  may  hug  with  joy,  to 
have  learned  that  whiteness  is  not  a  negation,  but 
the  sum  of  all  those  delicate  and  brilliant  hues  which 
are  the  very  ecstacy  of  art,  the  very  language  of 
rapture,  that 

"  Pure  light  unbroken  by  the  prism  " 

of  which  Browning  wrote  in  a  lyric  of  self-effacing 
passion  ?  Ah,  Browning,  the  great  optimist,  under- 
stood sorrow  and  bitterness,  though  he  saw  through 
the  agony  of  darkness  to  the  light  behind  it  all. 
He  never  ignored  ugly  facts.  It  was  in  a  sordid 
and  hideous  murder  trial  that  he  found  and  limned 
for  all  time  that  beautiful  soul  u  perfect  in  white- 
ness "  of  whom  he  makes  the  old  Pope  say  : 

"  Yet  if  in  purity  and  patience,  if 
In  faith  held  fast  despite  the  plucking  fiend, 
Safe  like  the  signet  stone  with  the  new  name 
That  saints  are  known  by, — if  in  right  returned 
For  wrong,  most  pardon  for  worst  injury, 
If  there  be  any  virtue,  any  praise, — 
Then  will  this  woman-child  have  proved — who 

knows  ? — 
Just  the  one  prize  vouchsafed  unworthy  me." 

It  was  an  awful  story  in  which  the  child  of  an 
outcast  played  her  part,  and  the  poet  who  drew 
Pompilia  in  all  the  beauty  of  immortality  knew 
well  that  this,  which  is  "  not  our  continuing  city," 
is  full  of  tragedy  as  well  as  of  redeeming  love,  and 
that,  as  he  wrote  elsewhere, 

27 1 


OF 

"  It  is  by  no  breath, 

Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins 
issue  with  death  !  " 

It  is  part  of  our  debt  to  him  that,  like  many 
another  great  poet,  he  has  brought  home  to  us  the 
mystic  reality  of  that  unfathomable  love,  which 
utters  to  all  the  agony  of  the  world,  from  the  heart 
of  God,  what  we  mean  when  we  say  to  some  beloved 
and  sorrowing  friend,  "  My  heart  bleeds  for  you," 
and  our  friend  bathes  in  the  warm  tide  of  outpoured 
sympathy  and  strength. 

Between  Christmas  and  the  New  Year  many  a 
North-Country  shepherd  out  in  the  snow  will  have 
thought  of  Him  who  thus  gave  Himself  for  us, 
and  of  whom  Henry  Vaughan  has  reminded  us 
that  there  were  many  reasons  why  He  should  call 
the  shepherds  to  Him  first — 

"  To  see  their  soul's  great  shepheard  who  was  come, 
To  bring  all  stragglers  home ; 
Where  now  they  find  him  out,  and,  taught  before, 
That  Lamb  of  God  adore, 
That  Lamb  whose  days  great  Kings  and  Prophets 

wish'd 

And  long'd  to  see,  but  miss'd. 
The  first  light  they  beheld  was  bright  and  gay, 
And  turn'd  their  night  to  day ; 
But  to  this  later  light  they  saw  in  him, 
Their  day  was  dark  and  dim. 

Ah,  why  fret  that  there  be  graves  beneath  the 
snow,  as  well  as  snowdrops,  when  Love  that 
"  beareth  all  things  "  is  omnipresent,  and  all  souls 
272 


— not  only  the  souls  of  the  righteous — are  "  in  the 
hand  of  God  "  ! 

"  Eternal  Father,  who  didst  all  create, 
In  whom  we  live,  and  to  whose  bosom  move, 
To  all  men  be  Thy  name  known,  which  is  Love. 

By  Thee  in  paths  of  peace  Thy  sheep  be  led, 
And  in  the  vale  of  terror  comforted/' 

It  is  fitting  that  the  lines  with  which  this  little 
snow-reverie  ends  should  be  from  that  great  living 
poet  with  whose  description  of  London  snow  it 
began,  but  to  realise  their  beauty  and  their  mean- 
ing to  the  full,  not  only  should  the  entire  sonnet 
be  read,  but  also  the  whole  series,  entitled  "The 
Growth  of  Love,"  of  which  it  is  the  culmination. 


273 


IN  PRAISE  OF  "ADAM  BEDE " 

[Reprinted from  the  "  Temple  Classics "  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  publishers] 

GEORGE  ELIOT  was  far  too  great  an  artist  to  stoop 
to  that  kind  of  obvious,  yet  superficial,  portraiture 
in  fiction  which  lends  itself  to  precise  identification  : 
she  is  known  to  have  disliked  extremely  that  vulgar 
spirit  of  trite  misapprehension  which  attributes  to 
creative  genius  a  kind  of  mental  snapshot,  scatter- 
ing photographs  of  places  and  people,  to  which  the 
would-be  critics  give  large-type  labels.  We  know, 
from  what  she  has  herself  told  us,  how  far  re- 
moved from  any  cheap  reduplication  of  that  sort 
was  her  presentment  of  "Adam  Bede,"  and  she 
has  warned  us  that,  though  there  were,  in  her 
sketch  of  him,  traits  of  her  own  father,  and,  in  his 
story,  two  incidents  connected  with  the  latter,  yet 
he  was  by  no  means  to  be  regarded  as  a  portrait, 
any  more  than  Dinah  is  a  portrait  of  that  "  Aunt 
Samuel  "  whose  visit  to  a  condemned  prisoner,  "  a 
very  ignorant  girl,  who  had  murdered  her  child," 
did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  suggest  the  germ  out  of 
which  the  story  of  "  Adam  Bede  "  arose.  But  all 
this  is  best  told  in  the  author's  own  words,  and  will 
be  found  on  pp.  254  and  255  of  the  one- volume 
edition  of  Mr.  Cross's  "  Life  of  George  Eliot." 

To  annotate  a  work  of  art  is  always  a  perilous 
undertaking,  and  especially  would  that  be  true  of 
so  supreme  an  achievement  as  "  Adam  Bede  " — at 
once  an  idyll  and  a  tragedy,  absolute  in  its  simple 
274 


OF 

unity  and  self-restraint,  most  moving  in  its  beauty, 
passionate  in  its  suffering,  yet  calm  and  uplifting 
as  a  great  symphony  or  a  fine  sunset.  There  is 
nothing  to  explain,  nothing  to  add  ;  for  hardly 
anything  is  more  striking  to  a  careful  and  sympa- 
thetic reader  than  the  perfect  critical  judgment  with 
which  everything  likely  to  mar  artistic  unity  and 
clearness  has,  by  a  kind  of  divine  instinct,  been 
avoided,  while  everything  vital  to  the  drama,  even 
to  the  smallest  detail,  unfolds  with  the  inevitable- 
ness  of  fate. 

It  may  satisfy  a  transient  curiosity  to  know  that 
Mr.  Irwine's  "  Foulis  ./Eschylus,"  alluded  to  on 
p.  214,  was  published  at  Glasgow  in  179 5,  and  that 
there  was  a  handsome  edition  from  the  text  of 
Stanley,  corrected  by  Professor  Person,  and  illus- 
trated with  Flaxman's  designs.  And  although  it 
in  no  way  affects  our  enjoyment  of  that  inimitable 
description  of  Mr.  Casson,  on  p.  13,  and  the  sleek 
healthiness  of  the  small  upper  sphere  in  his  genial 
and  rotund  person,  it  may  possibly  please  some 
stray  lover  of  English  verse  to  note  that  it  was  in 
the  first  book  of  "  Paradise  Lost"  (line  291)  that 
"  Milton  has  irreverently  called  the  moon "  "  a 
spotty  globe." 

In  classic  verse  there  are  many  descriptions  of 
English  landscape  which  would  finely  companion 
the  noble  prose  in  which,  by  half  a  dozen  masterly 
lines,  George  Eliot  has  again  and  again  given  us  the 
very  poetry  of  Midland  scenery.  Without  attempt- 
ing any  elaborate  reference  to  these,  it  may  be 
permissible  to  recall  the  words  of  another  great 
Englishwoman  of  the  nineteenth  century  : 

275 


OF 

"  (As  if  God's  finger  touched  but  did  not  press 
In  making  England)  such  an  up  and  down 
Of  verdure, — nothing  too  much  up  or  down, 
A  ripple  of  land  ;  such  little  hills,  the  sky 
Can  stoop  to  tenderly  and  the  wheatfields  climb  ; 
Such  nooks  of  valleys  lined  with  orchises, 
Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams ; 
And  open  pastures  where  you  scarcely  tell 
White  daisies  from  white  dew, — at  intervals 
The  mythic  oaks  and  elm-trees  standing  out 
Self-poised  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade, — 
I  thought  my  father's  land  was  worthy  too 
Of  being  my  Shakspeare's." 

The  oak  and  the  elm  here  have  the  pre-eminence  ; 
but  the  beech-tree — unsurpassed  for  symmetry  of 
line  and  translucent  beauty  of  colour — is  more 
frequent  in  Adam  Bede's  country,  and,  in  organic 
unity  of  force  and  grace,  might  stand  as  no  unfitting 
symbol  of  the  form  and  endurance  given  to  his 
story. 

George  Eliot  has  not  been  afraid  to  give  an  exact 
date  to  the  novel.  It  was  published  in  1859,  and 
the  story  opens  in  1799,  sixty  years  earlier.  But, 
just  as  she  has  avoided  any  lessening  of  charm 
which  would  have  resulted  from  mere  multiplicity 
of  detail,  in  those  pretty  touches  of  bygone  costume 
which  make  the  final  spell  of  grace,  of  colour,  of 
vividly  picturesque  reality,  in  her  descriptions  of 
Hetty,  or  Arthur,  or  the  Irwines ;  so  also  in  the 
more  important  features  of  her  background,  while 
the  setting  of  the  story  is  found  to  be  strikingly 
accurate  and  appropriate,  yet  jarring  amplification 
276 


OF  <ADtAM  BSVS 

and   sentimental   embroidering    have    throughout 
been  skilfully  excluded. 

1799  was  a  critical  and  eventful  year,  and  with 
admirable  art  George  Eliot  makes  use  of  the  dis- 
turbed condition  of  Ireland  as  an  occasion  for 
Arthur  Donnithorne's  absence  from  England  with 
his  regiment  when  Hetty  arrives  at  Windsor — 
admirable  art,  because  the  point  is  taken  for  granted 
and  not  even  explained,  lest  the  idyllic  setting  of 
the  tragedy — a  setting  which  can  only  enhance  its 
inexorable  pathos  and  terror — should  be  diverted 
to  political  controversy  or  detailed  national  history. 

It  is  the  year  in  which  "  the  Moving  Finger  "  of 
a  self-made  destiny  wrote  the  frightful — nay,  out- 
rageous— story  of  the  abuse  of  the  Indemnity  Acts, 
upon  a  page  of  Irish  history  blotted  by  torture  and 
corruption,  and  in  which  the  Irish  Parliament  signed 
its  own  death-warrant  in  its  proceedings  against 
suspected  rebels;  a  year  in  which  the  bigotry 
against  Irish  Roman  Catholics  seems  to  have 
equalled  in  spirit  the  worst  stories  of  the  Spanish 
Inquisition,  since  there  are  many  men  and  women 
to  whom  torture  and  brutal  flogging  would  be  a 
worse  kind  of  suffering  than  death  at  the  stake. 
Any  one  interested  in  the  subject  may  find  it  worth 
while  to  turn  to  the  fourth  volume  of  Massey's 
"  History  of  England."  The  stirring  history,  that 
was  a-making  in  the  wider  European  story  of 
Buonaparte's  increasing  power  and  Nelson's  vic- 
tories, is  indicated,  with  the  same  incidental  brevity, 
in  the  remarks  of  the  villagers.  Any  writer  less 
inspired  might  have  been  inclined  to  labour  the 
point,  but  never  once  in  "  Adam  Bede "  did 

277 


OF 

George  Eliot  swerve  from  the  austere  self-discipline 
and  economy  of  the  highest  achievement. 

Again,  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the  critical 
instinct  which  forbade  any  dissertation  on  the 
history  of  Dinah's  co-religionists.  There  is  no 
mention  of  them,  beyond  what  was  necessarily  and 
dramatically  included  in  the  story.  Perhaps  the 
keenest  temptation  to  impertinent  digression  likely 
to  assail  the  writer  of  this  note  is  the  inclination  to 
touch  on  Dinah's  divinely  simple  re-statement  of 
eternal  truths.  It  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that, 
precisely  through  the  absence  of  all  polemical  in- 
tention, all  weak  sentimentalism,  all  inclination  to 
"  improve  the  occasion,"  the  story  of  "  Adam 
Bede  "  must  have  entered  deeply  into  that  widen- 
ing and  regenerating  of  religious  thought  so 
characteristic  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  that 
the  music  of  thousands  of  toiling  lives  may  owe 
much  to  that  thrilling  chord,  struck  by  the  hand  of 
her  who  gave  to  our  heart  and  imagination  so  fair 
an  ideal  in  this  gentle  servant  of  the  poor,  of  whom 
Adam  said  that  she  had  "a  face  like  a  lily,"  and 
whom  his  mother  likened  to  the  angel  in  his  Bible 
that  had  rolled  away  the  stone  from  the  tomb. 
Herself  following  in  the  steps  of  Charles  Wesley, 
Dinah  Morris  holds  the  memory  with  the  same 
warm,  white  radiance  as  that  other  unlettered  girl 
whose  presence  has  transfigured  the  dark  atmo- 
sphere of  the  "  Ring  and  the  Book  "  with  a  halo  of 
purity  and  grace. 

There  is  an  incense  of  the  Morn  to  which  some 
are  more  alive  than  others.  George  Eliot  was  very 
sensitive  to  odours,  and  has  used  their  influence  in 
278 


OF 

61  Adam  Bede "  with  as  penetrating  a  magic  as 
Milton  has  done  in  "  Paradise  Lost."  Twice  is 
Dinah  associated  with  the  fragrance  of  sweet-brier  : 
what  could  better  haunt  the  recollection  of  such  a 
presence  than  this  exquisite  dewy  sweetness,  un- 
sullied as  the  clear,  fresh  air  of  a  world  beyond  our 
mortal  dust,  yet  equally  suggestive  of  the  village 
altar  and  the  village  hearth  ? 

Certain  it  must  be  that  this  tragic  idyll,  of  which 
Dinah  is  the  life  and  soul,  will  not  only  last  as  long 
as  the  English  language  lasts,  but  will  purify,  uplift, 
and  strengthen,  every  heart  and  mind  into  which  it 
enters,  and  the  more  lastingly  because  the  author 
has  never  once  obtruded  her  own  personality ;  she 
has  simply  held  up  the  mirror  to  life,  and  this  no 
great  artist  can  do  without  reflecting  something  of 
the  ineffable  Presence.  The  sacredness  of  work, 
the  sense  of  the  God-given  inspiration  which  should 
inform  and  transfigure  handicraft,  the  subtle  rela- 
tion between  thoroughness  in  duty  and  solidity  of 
character,  the  divine  value  of  lowly  tasks  ; — seldom 
indeed  have  these  struck  more  warmly  and  con- 
vincingly on  the  listening  mind  than  in  this  en- 
thralling story  of  human  love  and  passion.  But 
this  sterling  philosophy  of  life,  this  unflinching 
ideal  of  ardent  obedience  and  uncalculating  self- 
surrender  to  the  command  that  lies  nearest,  could 
hardly  have  made  so  poignant  and  salutary  a  mark 
upon  the  memory,  had  they  left  their  legitimate 
everyday  drama  and  descended  to  self-conscious 
teaching,  or  had  they  missed  their  converse  in  that 
self-delighting,  easy  benevolence  which,  in  the  slowly 
grinding  mill  of  Life,  learned  its  own  desolating 

279 


s  OF 

possibilities,  and  spoke  its  own  bitter  loss  of  youth 
and  joy,  in  Arthur's  last  recorded  words. 

Looking  at  " Silas  Marner "  and  "Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life,"  to  say  nothing  of "  The  Mill  on  the 
Floss ''  and  the  later  novels,  it  is  a  bold  thing  to 
say  that  "  Adam  Bede  "  is  George  Eliot's  master- 
piece, yet  the  more  it  is  studied,  the  more  likely  is 
that  belief  to  be  confirmed.  The  story  hardly  seems 
to  be  fold — it  lives.  So  inspired  is  its  intuitive 
perfection  that  even  the  few  out-of-the-way  words 
of  Midland  dialect  seem  to  make  no  passing  ob- 
scurity, their  meaning  being  intervoven  with  the 
context  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  implicitly  obvious. 
And  with  what  mastery  of  genius  has  the  novelist 
given  us  the  simple  poetry  of  peasant  imagery  and 
peasant  speech  !  There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in 
dough's  "  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolich/'  in  which 
Elspie  says  to  her  lover  : 

"  I  have  been  building  myself  up,  up,  and  toilfully 
raising, 

Just    like  as  if  the  bridge   were  to  do  it  itself 
without  masons, 

Painfully  getting  myself  upraised  one  stone  on 
another, 

All  one  side  I  mean  ;  and  now  I  see  on  the  other 

Just  such  another    fabric    uprising,  better    and 
stronger, 

Sometimes  I  dream  of  a   great  invisible    hand 

coming  down,  and 
Dropping  the  great  keystone  in  the  middle  :  there 

in  my  dreaming, 

280 


OF 

Feel  the  other  part — all  the  other  stones  of  the 

archway, 
Joined  into  mine  with  a  strange  happy  sense  of 

completeness.  .  .  ." 

In  a  single  phrase,  pathetic  in  its  bare  simplicity, 
Lisbeth  Bede,  Adam's  mother,  the  narrow,  queru- 
lous old  woman,  "clean  as  a  snowdrop,"  and  one 
of  the  most  vivid  of  the  minor  creations  in  literature, 
gives  that  image  its  complement  of  grief.  "  When 
one  end  o*  th'  bridge  tumbles  down,'1  she  says, 
"  where's  th'  use  o'  th'  other  stannin'  ?"  Mrs. 
Poyser's  renown  has  overshadowed  that  of  Lisbeth, 
but  the  latter  is  quite  as  epigrammatic  as  the 
other  notable  housewife ;  and  what  a  true  touch 
it  is  to  make  these  two  most  "  practical "  women 
the  most  daringly  poetic  in  their  turns  of  speech  ! 
It  is  Mrs.  Poyser  who  says  of  Dinah  that  she  is 
''one  o'  them  things  as  looks  the  brightest  on  a 
rainy  day,  and  loves  you  the  best  when  you're  most 
in  need  on't,"  and  Lisbeth  who  describes  herself 
after  her  husband's  death  as  being  "  no  better  nor 
an  old  haft  when  the  blade  is  gone." 

Language,  as  George  Eliot  herself  uses  it  in 
"  Adam  Bede,"  has  become  so  finished  and  flexible 
a  medium  of  thought  that  it  may  be  said  to  have 
attained  to  that  highest  perfection  which  effaces 
itself,  so  that  the  reader  forgets  that  there  is  any 
medium  at  all,  in  his  active  and  immediate  realisa- 
tion of  that  which  it  conveys. 

As  for  the  humour  that  breathes  through  the 
whole  novel,  Shakespeare  himself  has  not  surpassed 
it  in  unaffected  actuality.  The  drama  unfolds 

281 


s  OF 

itself  in  all  its  terrible  beauty  and  pathos  with  the 
awful  inevitableness  and  naturalness  of  life  itself. 

"  The  Moving  Finger  writes  ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on  :  nor  all  thy  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  thy  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it." 

But  for  the  sense  of  encircling  and  redeeming 
Love,  which  comes  home  to  the  reader,  not  only 
through  the  words  and  deeds  of  Dinah,  but  in 
every  passing  heart-throb,  every  obscure  footstep, 
throughout  the  whole  story,  the  burden  of  fate 
would  become  too  overwhelming  a  load,  so  insistent 
throughout  is  the  passionate  verification  of  Adam's 
words, — "  Life's  a  reckoning  we  can't  make  twice 
over,"  and  those  earlier  words  of  his,  already 
referred  to,  as  having  been  quoted  by  Arthur  at  the 
close  of  all, — "  There's  a  sort  of  wrong  that  can 
never  be  made  up  for." 


282 


ST.  PAUL'S  CHIMES 

IN  London's  heart,  the  home  of  toil  and  love, 

Where,  round  the  cross,  the  silver- breasted  dove 

Is  circling  to  the  music  of  your  chime — 

Or  brooding  in  the  golden  mist  above 

The  docks  and  shipping  and  unresting  river, 

A  little  height  beyond  the  smoke  and  grime 

That  veil  the  haunts  of  love  and  grief  and  crime — 

Still,  day  and  night,  your  message  you  deliver, 

To  point  the  record  of  unpausing  time  : 

Reflecting  on  your  dial, 

For  watchful  man's  espial, 

Earth's  tale  of  hourly  movement  on  through  space  ; 

On,  round  her  axis  turning, 

About  a  splendour  burning, 

With  punctual  inexorable  pace  : 

While,  daily,  like  some  bird  on  slanting  wing, 

She  holds  incessantly  the  wondrous  poise 

That  will  secure  recurrent  vernal  joys  ; 

The  perfume,  colour,  music  of  the  Spring  ! — 

Still  drawn  to  him  she  never  will  embrace, 

Who  warms  her  winter  into  summer  grace, 

As  if  reluctant,  yet  persistent,  goes — 

Repelled  and  drawn — enriched  with  human  freight, 

Made  glad  with  winged  and  footed  fellowship 

Of  beast  and  bird,  and  finny-ocean  deep, 

And  fair  wild  things,  from  holly-berry  to  rose — 

Nor  out  of  her  ellipse  with  random  slip 

Has  ever  fallen,  nor  flown  with  random  leap 

To  swift  destruction  and  abysmal  fate  ! 

283 


OF 

Still  dost  thou  mark  unerring,  how  she  moves 
In  that  vast  cosmic  order  where  she  proves 
One  influence,  small  and  incommensurate, 
In  that  wide  universe  whereof  man  knows 
No  certain  boundary,  where  the  mystery  glows 
Magnetic  with  unseen,  unknown  vibrations 
Of  ancient  stars  and  ever- new  creations, 
The  sanctities  of  endless  constellations, 
Which  human  thought  can  never  violate. 

For  what  are  days  and  hours  and  months  and  years, 

While  seasons  come  and  go 

And  lives  move  to  and  fro, 

But  rhythmic  interwheeling  of  the  spheres 

Whose  balanced  flight  in  everlasting  chase, 

Which  man  recalls  upon  your  homely  face, 

Are  no  true  measure  of  his  hopes  and  fears, 

His  joys  divine,  his  agonies  and  tears ; 

Though  you,  two-handed,  made  to  measure  time, 

Through  day  and  night  the  mystic  numbers  chime  ! 

Yet  man,  while  onward  faring 

Through  many  an  age  and  clime — 

From  light  to  darkness,  back  through  dark  to  light, 

With  dawn  forever  following  after  night — 

Will  note  your  solemn  chime, 

And  set  his  clocks  to  rhyme 

With  our  small  earthly  wheel 

In  that  most  wondrous,  universal  Clock, 

Whereon  the  Source  of  Law  has  set  His  seal — 

Through  darkness,  light  preparing, 

For  life,  through  death,  still  caring, — 

That  timepiece  none  may  alter  or  unlock 

Save  One  Who  made  it. 

284 


ST.  TvtUUS  CHIMSS 

Men  may  gaze  and  mock — 
Its  pendulum  will  rock 

Through  all  aeonian  change  and  temporal  shock, 
'Mid  cycling  evolution, 
Or  sequent  devolution 
And  starry  revolution, 
On  to  the  end  of  time  ! 

And  when  the  Master  shall  the  heavens  roll 
At  last  together,  like  a  finished  scroll. 
To  give  us  welcome  at  the  "  Marriage-feast" 
Which  will  the  dual  riddle  perchance  resolve 
That  man  has  ever  vainly  yearned  to  solve — 
Beyond  the  caravanserai  of  earth, 
With  all  its  dream  of  human  death  and  birth, 
Love  having  slain  the  dragon  and  the  beast ! — 
Then,  if  we  see  no  more  the  Clock  august 
That  shall  have  vanished  with  the  starry  dust 
And  all  the  bodies  breathing  mortal  breath, 
We  shall  not  much  remember  it,  nor  care, 
When  hope's  fruition  faltering  memory  shrives ! 

Oh,  then  at  last,  when  all  division's  over 

And  joy  has  come  to  every  faithful  lover, 

While  those  "  twice-born,"  beyond  the  reach  of 

death, 

Gaze  on  the  Face  they  longed  for  all  their  lives, 
All  earthly  love — immortal,  bright  or  dim — 
Fulfilled  and  found  again  in  finding  Him  ; 
Unless  their  heaven  be  hell  because  they  read, 
In  one  long  answering  look  that  will  not  spare, 
Of  strength  they  wasted  whereof  love  had  need, — 
They  will  be  thankful  Life  of  time  is  bare  ! 

285 


TWO  STUDIES 

BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 


A  SERVANT  OF  THE  EARTH 

BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 

His  name  was  Elisha  Bole,  and  he  lived  in  the 
little  village  of  Harford,  in  South  Devon.  He  was 
a  farm-labourer,  fallen  in  his  old  age  on  evil  days 
and  the  parish.  With  him  these  things  had  come 
ten  years  before  their  time,  for  Bole  was  a  young 
man — that  is  to  say,  not  much  more  than  sixty — 
at  the  time  of  the  great  trouble.  Bole  was  out 
hedging  with  the  best  of  them,  when  he  slipped 
from  a  high  bank,  and  the  stake  he  had  just  planted 
went  through  his  ribs,  doing  incurable  hurt  to  his 
lungs. 

That  was  how  Bole  came  to  embrace  the  con- 
templative life.  Not  willingly.  It  may  seem  hard 
to  believe  it  of  a  Devonshire  man,  but  Bole,  with 
only  breath  enough  to  take  him  to  the  end  of  his 
garden  and  back,  panted  for  the  life  of  action. 
Yesterday  he  had  range  of  the  soil  for  at  least 
seven  miles  round  his  village.  To-day  a  garden 
and  a  cottage  were  all  his  world. 

A  pleasant  place  enough,  that  garden,  when  it 
was  not  scourged  by  rain  from  heaven,  or  hidden 
under  mist  from  the  river,  or  blotted  out  by  fog 
from  the  sea.  There  the  year  rang  its  changes  in 
a  happy  sequence  of  scents,  violets,  roses,  chrysan- 
themums, and  the  rich  earthy  smell  dear  to  a  son 
of  the  soil.  There  the  slow  movement  of  the 
seasons  stirred  his  intelligence  to  processes  more 
slow. 

T  289 


OF 

A  porch  of  trellis-work,  flanked  by  tall  bushes 
of  chrysanthemums,  led  straight  from  the  open  air 
into  the  dwelling-place,  an  inner  world  where  all 
was  vague,  indistinguishable.  At  first  you  saw 
nothing  there  but  layers  upon  layers  of  darkness 
and  the  figure  of  Bole  moving  on  the  face  of  the 
darkness  like  a  shadow.  Then  gradually,  because 
of  a  certain  light  and  movement  in  them,  his  eyes 
and  his  smile  detached  themselves  from  the  sur- 
rounding gloom .  Presently,  after  stumbling  against 
it,  perhaps,  you  made  out  a  table  heaped  with  dark 
objects  (I  never  knew  what  these  were  till  long 
afterwards),  or,  guided  by  its  furious  ticking,  an 
eight-day  clock  in  the  far  corner,  and  in  the 
twilight  of  the  window  pots  of  geraniums  half 
buried  under  primeval  dirt.  At  least,  you  may 
call  it  dirt — I  would  rather  think  of  it  as  a  gentle 
fusion  of  Bole  and  his  geraniums  with  the  earth 
from  which  they  came. 

After  all,  when  you  got  used  to  it,  there  was 
something  restful  in  these  obscurities  which  made 
Bole  so  profoundly  one  with  his  world.  It  was  a 
shock  when  I  found  one  warm  Sunday  that  Bole 
had  developed  a  sudden  individuality  by  washing 
his  face.  It  seemed  to  disturb  that  serene,  abiding 
sense  of  unity.  How  often  have  I  found  him 
crouching  over  his  low  fire,  or  seated  at  his  table, 
motionless,  staring  into  the  darkness.  Then  he 
seemed  to  me  not  so  much  Bole  the  labourer  as 
Bole  the  dreamer,  the  philosopher,  the  mystic. 
Who  knows  whether  in  that  lapse  of  all  sensation, 
all  idea,  Bole  may  not  have  touched  the  supreme 
Nothingness  ?  I  used  to  ask  myself  whether  I  did 
290 


OF 

well  to  rouse  him  from  those  beatitudes  of  vacuity 
to  the  painful  life  of  thought,  whether  our  friend- 
ship might  not  have  interfered  with  some  merging 
of  Bole  in  the  Infinite. 

For  it  came  on  him  suddenly,  when  he  was  un- 
ready for  anything  of  the  kind.  Bole  had  not 
learned  the  uses  of  friendship,  and  strange  faces 
annoyed  him.  His  life  had  been  split  in  two  : 
there  was  the  time  before  and  the  time  after  his 
accident,  and  one  knew  nothing  of  the  other. 
And  if  Bole  was  morose  as  well  as  unsociable, 
circumstances  had  helped  to  make  him  so.  He 
lived  alone,  having  neither  friends  nor  kindred  in 
the  village,  save  Radley,  his  brother-in-law,  and 
Radley  he  hated.  Radley,  once  a  policeman,  was 
a  sordid  man  who  lived  on  a  pension  in  obtrusive 
affluence.  Fortune,  who  had  smiled  on  Radley, 
had  treated  Bole  with  feminine  malignity.  Many 
years  before  the  accident  some  of  the  villagers 
had  formed  themselves  into  a  club  for  support  in 
times  of  sickness.  This  club  was  looked  on  by 
the  greater  part  with  extreme  disfavour,  and  only 
a  few  of  the  more  revolutionary  spirits  belonged 
to  it,  Bole,  among  their  number,  risking  all  his 
little  savings.  The  club  might  have  flourished  to 
this  day,  but  for  the  inconsiderate  behaviour  of 
one  of  its  members,  whose  ill-timed  sickness  and 
death  broke  the  bank.  Of  him  Bole  always  spoke 
as  of  one  who  had  indeed  greatly  erred,  but  had 
not  therefore  forfeited  all  claim  to  pity  and  forgive- 
ness. But  Radley — well,  Bole  was  the  creature  of 
prejudice. 

Bole  being  as  he  was,  his  friendship  was  not 

291 


OF 

to  be  won  without  infinite  sleight  and  cunning. 
Many  a  time  my  hand  was  on  the  latch  of  his 
garden  gate  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  open 
it.  I  had  thought  out  a  plan,  bold,  but  somewhat 
crude.  Attracted  by  his  fame  as  a  gardener,  I 
was  to  come  to  him  and  humbly  beg  for  advice  as 
to  the  best  way  of  preserving  crocuses  from  field- 
mice.  A  custard  pudding  was  then  to  be  offered  him 
as  an  informal  acknowledgment  of  his  services. 
But  at  our  first  meeting — if  it  could  be  called  a 
meeting  when  Bole's  back  was  immovably  pre- 
sented to  me  on  his  threshold — my  courage  for- 
sook me,  and  I  fled,  bearing  the  pudding. 

Our  second  meeting  was  happier.  This  time  I 
had  come  to  buy  of  his  parsley.  It  was  cut  and 
handed  to  me  in  silence,  and  I  tendered  a  shilling 
in  exchange.  He  looked  at  it  darkly. 

"  That  bain't  tiipence,"  said  he. 

"N-no.     It's  no  matter." 

He  held  out  the  coin  shining  in  the  palm  of  his 
grimy  hand. 

"  Tiipence,  I  zaid.  There's  no  chailnge  i'  my 
plaace." 

And  I  had  no  pennies,  so  I  had  to  take  a 
shilling's  worth  of  parsley ;  his  flowers  he  would 
not  sell. 

On  my  third  visit  I  turned  again  to  my  original 
plan.  I  laid  my  difficulty  before  him.  For  full 
five  minutes  Bole  looked  at  his  hands  as  if  to 
bring  back  a  sense  of  the  earth  they  had  worked 
in  ;  he  seemed  to  plunge  and  lose  himself  in  depths 
of  thought,  of  memory.  He  rose  darkling  to  the 
surface. 
292 


OF  rue 

"  Crocusses,  crocusses — yii  diggies  a  ring  mebbe 
one  voot  round,  mebbe  tii.  Yii  vills  'em  wi' 
zinder.  Yii  zets  the  crocuss  i'  the  midst.  They 
zay  the  mouse  wunnut  win  droo  the  zinder." 

He  smiled,  and  by  that  smile  I  came  to  know 
him.  I  took  heart  from  it,  and  asked  if  I  might 
come  again.  He  answered  me  with  an  air  of 
extreme  abstraction  :  "  Zo  dii,  zo  dii,  ef  yii  plaze, 


nuzz." 


I  went  again.  We  had  not  much  to  say,  so 
many  subjects  were  delicate. 

In  time  I  learned  to  know  his  ways,  and  steered 
clear  of  the  more  prominent  rocks  of  offence  ;  but 
to  this  day  I  blush  with  shame  to  think  of  the 
mistake  I  made  almost  at  the  very  outset,  thereby- 
undoing  the  work  of  many  weeks.  I  offered  to 
read  aloud  to  him.  It  is  very  terrible  to  look 
back  upon,  but  I  was  young,  and  so  many  of  his 
neighbours  liked  being  read  to  that  I  thought  he 
would  be  sure  to  share  this  taste.  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
The  very  suggestion  was  an  insult  to  his  sense  of 
scholarship.  From  that  moment  I  often  came  upon 
him  with  a  book  in  his  hand  (generally  the  Bible 
or  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer),  when  he  would 
detain  me,  filling  up  the  pauses  in  the  conversation 
by  reading  to  himself  in  a  slow,  soft  whisper,  lay- 
ing firm  hold  on  each  word  with  his  thumb-nail. 
A  lengthy  process ;  but  why  should  he  care  for 
time  who  was  so  sure  of  a  blessed  eternity  ? 

His  tongue  once  loosened,  Bole  gradually  un- 
bent. We  talked  —  topics  ranging  from  the 
weather  and  the  crops  to  the  more  intimate  deal- 
ings of  Providence  with  his  creatures.  No  gossip. 

293 


OF 

Bole  did  not  care  enough  for  his  neighbours  to 
talk  about  them ;  the  little  world  of  the  village 
had  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  But  there  were 
still  difficulties,  limitations.  For  instance,  on  the 
subject  of  Bole's  health  there  was  a  certain  etiquette 
against  which  you  gravely  sinned  by  telling  him 
that  he  <c  looked  better."  The  right  thing  was  to 
begin  thus : 

"  You  seem  to  be  wheezing  a  great  deal  to-day  ; 
I'm  sure  your  chest  must  be  worse." 

"  I  be  tur'ble  bad  wi'  the  whazing,  as  yii  zee. 
Doctor  never  comes  nigh  me."  He  chuckled 
maliciously.  "  Like  as  not  my  complaint's  a  bit 
tii  masterful  fur  'e."  No  discomfort  could  subdue 
his  pride  in  a  disorder  that  had  outwitted  the 
faculty.  And  Bole  knew  how  to  return  a  compli- 
ment. This  visit  was  my  first  after  being  kept 
indoors  with  some  illness ;  suddenly  remembering 
this,  he  exclaimed  with  well-feigned  horror  :  "  My  ! 
Zit  yii  down  on  thiccy  cheer.  Yii  be  green  i'  the 
faace  !  "  (This  was  a  polite  fiction.) 

I  waived  the  delicate  flattery.     "  I'm  all  right 


now." 


"  Don't   yii  tell   me.      Better  or  wuss,  yii  be 
tur'ble  bad  still,  I  can  zee,  sure  'miff." 

Once  launched  on  personalities,  Bole  grew 
rapidly  intimate.  He  went  back  to  the  days 
before  the  accident ;  his  voice  softened,  and  he 
told  of  his  dead  wife — dead  seventeen  years. 
"  'Tis  strange.  Somehows  I  zeems  t'  remember 
her  now  better'n  ever  I  dii.  'Er  wur  a  good 
'ooman.  'Er  couldn't  bide  long  wi'  that  Radley 
— Arr-r-r ! " 
294 


OF 

His  brother-in-law  naturally  suggesting  his 
brother,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  they  were  boys 
together,  Bole  wandered  further  afield.  "  'Er  be 
gone  tu  Canada  this  zixty  year — 'tis  a  laa'ge  plaace 
they  zay.  'Er  be  varmer  there,  gotten's  ownvarm 
and's  own  land."  A  visionary  look  stole  over 
his  face  as  he  spoke  of  that  brother  who  had 
realised  the  labourer's  eternal  dream.  "  'Is  zon 
writes  and  tells  me's  vather's  growed  se  vat,  er 
'ad  t'  'ave  a  special  cheer — carpenter-maade — vur 
en  tu  zit  down  in." 

This  was  said  with  pride,  as  a  convincing  proof 
that  his  brother  was  a  man  of  substance.  That  I 
too  had  a  brother  in  Canada  was  thought  by  Bole 
to  be  something  more  than  a  startling  coincidence. 

After  that  day  I  was  free  to  come  and  go  as  I 
pleased,  till,  if  I  let  a  fortnight  pass  without  seeing 
him,  he  would  receive  me  with  mild  reproach  and 
always  the  same  saying  : 

"  I  wur  veared  as  yii  wur  tuk  bad  again." 

As  if  nothing  but  illness  or  death  could  have 
excused  such  neglect ! 

But  if  this  delightful  footing  had  only  been  won 
by  cunning,  it  needed  still  greater  art  to  make 
Bole  accept  the  smallest  offering.  Bole  did  not 
want  chanty ;  he  wanted  to  get  to  work  u  i'  the 
vields — the  vields  again  !  "  Moreover,  he  deemed 
that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive.  He 
never  let  me  go  now  without  a  bunch  of  flowers 
or  cuttings  from  his  best  geraniums.  He  would 
approach  mysteriously  a  certain  gloomy  drawer, 
and,  opening  it  in  a  large  and  leisurely  manner, 
show  me  stowed  away  in  a  corner  an  apple  which 

295 


s  OF 

he  had  saved  for  me  on  account  of  its  preternatural 
size.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  smile  of  underhand 
delight  with  which,  in  the  first  winter  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, he  announced,  "  I've  got  a  Chrizmizz 
box  for  yu,"  displaying  a  huge  cauliflower  carefully 
wrapped  in  the  most  abandoned  of  red  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.  And  when  it  was  put  to  him  that 
as  he  delighted  in  giving,  so  it  might  be  that  what 
he  called  "  charity J)  was  also  a  form  of  self- 
indulgence  on  my  part,  he  accepted  the  gloss. 
He  confessed  that  barley-water  and  lemon-juice 
was  an  excellent  thing  for  "  the  whazing."  On 
this  new  drink  Bole  experimented  in  all  the  spirit 
of  a  natural  philosopher.  He  would  hide  it  for 
days  in  dark  places  ;  anon  he  would  set  it  in  the 
sun  till  it  fermented  and  exploded  in  his  face,  to 
his  perpetual  surprise  and  delight,  when  he  would 
maintain  against  all  argument  that  the  effervescent 
state  was  the  only  right  and  proper  one  for  barley- 
water. 

Happily  Bole  seemed  aware  that  a  man  who 
has  once  accepted  barley-water  cannot  consistently 
refuse  any  other  trifle  you  may  wish  to  offer  him. 
And  now  his  strength  revived,  but  only  for  a 
season.  Worse  than  parish  fare  were  the  darkness 
and  the  dirt  of  Bole's  dwelling.  Even  stocks  and 
oak-leaved  geraniums  were  powerless  against  the 
ungovernable  smells  that  rose  from  the  ground 
where  the  damp  oozed  through  the  imperfect 
concrete.  In  stormy  weather  I  have  seen  the  rain 
beat  in  from  the  threshold  and  form  a  small  pool 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  And  when  a  cholera 
scare  came  upon  us  I  felt  that  steps  must  be  taken. 
296 


OF  me 

Therefore  I  sought  out  a  woman  with  strong  arms, 
and  stronger  nerves,  fit  for  the  Herculean  labour, 
and  broke  it  very  gently  to  Bole  that,  with  his 
leave,  it  would  please  me  to  have  his  cottage 
thoroughly  cleaned  and  whitewashed. 

He  refused  politely  but  firmly  :  "  Let  en  bide, 
let  en  bide."  Still  more  gently  I  touched  on  the 
kinship  of  disease  and  darkness  (you  couldn't  say 
*'  dirt "  for  fear  of  hurting  his  feelings).  Still 
more  politely  he  rebuked  my  impiety.  "  I've  no 
vaith  i'  zoap  an1  water.  I  puts  my  trust  Else- 
where." 

All  the  same  he  looked  furtively  at  my  gown  as 
I  got  up  to  go.  It  had  been  fresh  when  I  started  ; 
now,  sure  enough,  there  were  dark  streaks  on  its 
freshness.  To  my  sorrow  he  whipped  out  the 
red  pocket-handkerchief,  sought  to  remove  them, 
and  shrank  back  appalled  by  his  own  deed. 

4<  My  !  I've  maade  en  worser'n  'twas.  'Tis 
the  dirt.  But  there — yii  know  what  'tis  ! " 

Not  many  days  afterwards  I  found  him  sunning 
himself  at  his  door  and  smiling  softly.  He  laid  a 
detaining  hand  on  the  latch,  saying,  with  a  look  of 
indescribable  slyness:  "I've  got  a  surprise  vur 
yii."  He  then  threw  open  the  door. 

It  was  a  surprise,  not  to  say  a  shock.  The 
room  had  been  whitewashed  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
and  everything  in  it  thoroughly  scoured  and 
cleaned.  The  tin  canisters  on  the  chimney-piece 
gleamed  like  silver.  A  brass  warming-pan  flashed 
from  the  wall.  On  the  table  by  the  door  shone  a 
white  and  gold  tea  set.  This  was  the  collection  of 
dark  objects  which  had  excited  my  curiosity  in  the 

297 


OF 

beginning.  Bole  broke  into  a  low  but  triumphant 
chuckle.  In  a  fit  of  remorse  he  had  planned  this 
scene  for  my  delight,  even  employing  a  friend  of 
Radley's  for  the  job. 

I  remember  I  was  pleased  with  the  transforma- 
tion. But  I  have  wondered  since  whether,  Bole 
being  so  one  with  that  familiar  darkness,  its  re- 
moval may  not  have  helped  to  loosen  his  hold  on 
life.  A  day  or  two  later  I  found  him  for  the  first 
time  busy  and  in  high  favour  with  himself. 

"  Yii'll  be  surprised  to  see  what  I  be  a-doing  of. 
I  be  tailoring— I  be  !  " 

I  was  invited  to  sit  down  and  watch  him.  He 
was  patching  his  old  fustian  coat  on  an  entirely  new 
plan.  His  way  was  beset  with  difficulty.  First 
there  was  the  thread.  Bole  held  it  like  a  lance  in 
rest,  and,  pursing  his  mouth  with  determination, 
tilted  blindly  at  the  needle's  eye.  Then  there  was 
the  stuff.  Bole  was  cutting  out  pieces  the  exact 
size  of  the  hole,  fitting  each  into  the  other,  and 
sewing  the  raw  edges  together.  When  I  tried  to 
explain  the  superior  advantages  of  legitimate 
patching  he  shook  his  head  with  grave  dis- 
approval, and  went  on  in  his  own  fashion,  looking 
up  nervously  from  time  to  time  as  the  stitches 
perpetually  gave  way  and  the  patch  fell  out.  In 
silence  I  handed  him  a  large  patch,  cut  out  when 
he  was  not  looking.  There  was  a  moment  of 
suspense.  At  last  in  silence  he  took  it,  and  applied 
it  according  to  instructions,  which  he  pretended  not 
to  hear,  putting  his  head  very  much  on  one  side, 
like  one  liberally  indulgent  to  a  doubtful  innova- 
tion. He  completed  his  task  with  wonderful 


OF  THS 

success,  but  the  triumph  left  him  trembling  and 
exhausted. 

And  now,  though  it  was  yet  six  weeks  from 
Christmas,  the  weather  was  unusually  bitter,  and  I 
brought  him  a  warm  Cardigan  jacket.  It  was  a 
thought  too  tight ;  and  though  he  insisted  on  try- 
ing it  on,  he  was  much  shaken  by  the  effort. 
Politely  he  denied  the  misfit.  "  Er'll  dii  vinely, 
er'll  dii  vinely,  mizz  '' ;  but  there  was  disappoint- 
ment somewhere.  On  being  implored  to  unburden 
his  mind,  he  confessed  that  the  desire  of  his  heart 
was  for  a  new  white  coat.  "  Zlops,  some  calls  'em 
— zame  as  yii  zee  me  a-tailoring  at." 

I  was  ashamed  at  not  having  anticipated  this 
obvious  want,  and  a  white  coat  was  procured  with 
all  possible  speed.  But  when  I  saw  him  next  he 
still  wore  the  tailored  garment,  and  I  asked 
anxiously  if  his  new  one  was  a  misfit  too.  He 
shook  his  head.  No,  he  was  "zaving  'er  till  th' 
owld  en  wur  dirty  'nuff  to  be  laaid  tii-zide." 
Only  one  who  had  seen  "  th'  owld  en  "  could 
appreciate  the  ideal  nature  of  his  ambition. 

Strangely  enough  it  was  on  this  day  that  Bole 
showed  the  first  sign  of  any  interest  in  his  neigh- 
bours. One  half  of  Harford  is  virtuous,  the  other 
half  is  not.  I  had  told  him  I  had  just  come  from 
the  house  of  one  Martha  Pile,  where  a  young  girl 
was  dying  of  a  terrible  form  of  consumption.  He 
shook  his  head  gravely.  "  Martha  Piles's  is  no 
plaace  fur  yii,  mizz.  They  zaay  'tis  a  bad  house." 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  say — Lizzie's  dying. '' 

"  Dying  ?  Dying  ? ••"  He  crouched  closer  to  the 
fire.  "  Well,  Martha's  a  bad  en,  but  I  never  knew 

299 


OF 

no  harm  to  the  pore  maaid.  Dying,  be  'er •?  "  He 
shivered. 

It  was  but  a  week  later  when  a  message  came 
up  from  the  village  that  my  friend  was  very  ill. 
I  hurried  down  to  the  cottage.  The  droop- 
ing chrysanthemums,  bitter-sweet  on  the  keen 
November  air,  the  hoarse  ticking  of  the  eight-day 
clock,  had  a  hint  of  dissolution  in  them,  and  my 
heart  was  heavy  as  1  passed  through  the  dwelling- 
place,  so  strangely  bright  and  clean,  to  the  low 
room  above. 

He  did  not  know  me.  Radley  was  with  him  ; 
he  did  not  know  Radley.  Radley  was  grieved  at 
his  painful  discourtesy  in  not  recognising  me 
through  the  mist  of  death  :  he  explained  many 
times  over  that  he  was  "  a  bit  light  i'  th'  'ead, 
like."  And  all  the  time  Bole  moved  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  and  babbled  of  I  know  not  what ;  but 
it  seemed  that  even  now,  on  the  borderland  of 
death,  he  was  lost  in  some  shadowy  struggle  for 
the  means  of  life.  Earth-bound  ?  Who  knows  ? 

A  little  while  and  he  had  done  with  earth ;  the 
servant  was  freed  from  his  master.  As  I  left  the 
room  I  saw  the  new  white  coat  lying  neatly  folded 
on  a  chair.  It  had  never  been  worn. 


300 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 

GEORGE  MEREDITH  was  born  before  his  time,  and 
he  has  died  before  it,  as  a  young  man  dies.  For 
fifty-five  years  he  laboured,  bringing  forth  the  long 
and  splendid  procession  of  his  masterpieces,  from 
"The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  a  novel  of 
absolute  and  incomparable  greatness,  to  "  The 
Amazing  Marriage,"  which  would  alone  have 
proved  greatness  in  a  lesser  man.  And  he  has  not 
yet  come  into  his  own.  He  is  king  to  the  kings  and 
the  great  lords  of  literature,  but  he  can  in  no  way 
be  said  to  reign  by  the  voice  of  the  sovran  people. 
After  a  long  period  of  obscurity  he  has  passed  into 
the  eternal  possession  of  the  few.  But  although 
by  a  dreadful  fate  he  became  for  a  time  the  prey  of 
the  cultured,  who  are  fairly  numerous,  the  great, 
heavy  mass  of  people  who  read,  or  think  they  read, 
cannot  stand  Meredith. 

And  to-day,  among  the  cultured  and  the  critical 
who  do  read  him,  there  is  a  reaction  against  him. 
Nobody  doubts  his  greatness  nor  the  divinity  of  it. 
Nobody  dares  suggest  that  he  did  not  produce  great 
literature.  The  tendency  is  to  complain  that  it 
was  literature  that  he  insisted  on  reproducing,  and 
not  life.  Some  of  us  deny  that  he  was  either  a 
great  novelist  or  a  great  poet. 

The  younger  generation  of  novelists  are  all  for 
a  conscientious  realism,  and  we  have  a  few  young 
critics  who  are  conscientious  too.  And  Meredith 

301 


s  OF 

is  peculiarly  baffling  to  these.  He  eludes  all  their 
attempts  to  catch  and  label  him.  He  seems  to 
them  now  a  realist  of  considerable  piety,  and  now 
a  romanticist  of  the  kind  they  most  abhor.  Al- 
ready before  his  death  they  were  trying  to  place 
him.  They  are  painfully  anxious,  elaborately  care- 
ful, not  to  place  him  wrong.  And  he  refuses  to 
be  placed. 

He  did  away  with  their  preposterous  labels  once 
for  all  twenty-three  years  ago,  when,  in  the  first 
chapter  of  "  Diana  of  the  Crossways,"  he  pro- 
claimed himself  a  prophet  of  "  the  Real,"  and 
at  the  same  time  told  us  that  our  Realists  were 
our  "  castigators  for  not  having  yet  embraced 
Philosophy." 

He  defined  fiction  as  "  the  summary  of  actual 
Life,  the  within  and  the  without  of  us."  It  was 
as  a  novelist  that  he  came  forward  for  judgment, 
and  it  is  as  a  novelist  that  they  arraign  him  to-day, 
allowing  him  to  be  a  philosopher,  and,  perhaps,  as 
it  were  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  a  poet. 

Now,  to  measure  his  greatness,  not  as  a  philo- 
sopher, nor  yet  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  novelist,  we 
must  remember  the  position  of  the  novelist  in  the 
Victorian  age.  He  found  himself  between  the 
devil  of  realism  and  the  deep  sea  of  sentiment,  a 
horrible  position.  It  distorted  his  whole  attitude 
to  life  and  his  view  of  the  Real.  Meredith  was 
the  first  to  deliver  the  English  novel  from  that 
degradation.  He  was  the  first  to  see  that  it  is 
sentiment  and  not  conscience  that  makes  novelists 
cowards.  He  recognised  Sentimentalism  for  what 
it  is,  the  u  fine  flower  of  sensualism,"  and  through 
302 


its  very  fineness  the  subtlest  source  of  spiritual 
corruption.  He  knew  that  Sentiment  —  early 
Victorian  Sentiment — piled  to  its  height  topples 
over  into  the  mire.  He  saw  it  as  the  mother  of 
all  shams  and  all  hypocrisies,  the  nurse  of  mon- 
strous illusions.  Thackeray,  the  greatest  novelist 
of  his  time,  who  stood  nearest  to  Meredith  in 
sincerity  and  fearlessness  and  hatred  of  shams, 
Thackeray  was  afraid,  and  put  it  on  record  that  he 
was  afraid,  to  tell  the  truth  about  a  man.  He 
said  it  in  his  preface  to  "  Pendennis,"  and  he  laid 
his  cowardice  to  the  account  of  the  Society  which 
had  brought  fiction  to  this  pass. 

Meredith  knew  nothing  of  that  fear.  "  Imagine," 
he  said,  "  the  celestial  refreshment  of  having  a  pure 
decency  in  the  place  of  sham ;  real  flesh ;  a  soul 
born  active,  wind-beaten,  but  ascending.  Honour- 
able will  fiction  then  appear  ;  honourable,  a  fount 
of  life,  an  aid  to  life,  quick  with  our  blood.  Why, 
when  you  behold  it  you  love  it — and  you  will  not 
encourage  it — or  only  when  presented  by  dead 
hands ! " 

His  message  to  his  generation  was  :  "  Follow  the 
Real.  Do  not  be  led  by  the  tainted  sentimental 
lure.  Trust  yourselves  to  Nature,  though  she 
make  havoc  of  your  sentiment.''  For  at  the  heart 
of  Nature  he  discerned  the  fiery  spiritual  pulse, 
through  and  beyond  Nature  the  purifying,  libera- 
ting flame.  Thus  he  escapes  his  captors  who  would 
hold  him  to  pure  paganism. 

The  unity  of  Nature  and  Spirit  and  the  return  to 
Spirit  through  Nature  is  Meredith's  philosophy. 
He  found  his  generation  sickly,  and  for  the  cure 

3°3 


OF 

of  its  sickliness  he  prescribed  Philosophy.  By 
Philosophy  he  did  not  mean  anything  abstract, 
anything  the  least  metaphysical,  anything  really 
incomprehensible  to  our  arbiter  of  letters,  the  man 
in  the  street.  Meredith's  philosophy  is  brain-stuff, 
thought  that  makes  up  half  of  the  fabric  of  the 
world.  "  Idea,"  he  said,  "  is  vital."  He  was  an 
idealist  only  to  that  extent.  Brains,  to  be  any  good, 
must  have  blood  in  them,  and  that  is  where  the  heart 
comes  in.  No  man,  no  writer,  had  a  greater  and 
a  fierier  heart  at  the  service  of  his  brain.  And  so 
again  he  escapes  the  grasp  of  those  who  would 
place  him  among  the  unhumanised,  inaccessible 
exponents  of  the  cold  Idea,  who  say  that  his  appeal 
was  not  to  the  universal  human  heart,  but  to  the 
by  no  means  universal  human  intellect. 

Now  our  conscientious  young  critics  have  no 
quarrel  with  Meredith's  philosophy  as  a  philosophy. 
Their  contention  is  that,  as  a  novelist,  he  had  no 
right  to  have  any  philosophy  at  all.  They  resent 
it  as  an  unwarrantable  interference  with  his  drama, 
an  irritating  interruption  to  his  story.  They 
attack  it  on  artistic  grounds,  and  because  of  it  they 
persuade  themselves  that  Meredith  was  not  a  great 
novelist.  Which  only  proves  that  they  have 
forgotten  their  Meredith.  Nobody  who  reads  his 
novels  with  any  care  will  find  his  philosophy 
intruding  where  it  can  do  harm.  You  will  not 
come  across  it  at  any  of  the  intenser  psychological 
moments,  in  any  of  the  great  dramatic  scenes,  or 
in  any  of  his  inspired  passages.  It  is  at  its  height 
in  "  Diana  "  and  "  The  Egoist,"  but  even  there  it 
is  confined  to  the  prologue  and  the  interludes. 
304 


Except  by  way  of  comment  it  is  almost  entirely 
absent  from  "Richard  Feverel,"  "Rhoda  Fleming," 
"  Evan  Harrington,"  "  Harry  Richmond,"  and 
"  Beauchamp's  Career." 

For  Meredith  was  before  all  things  a  great 
dramatist  and  a  great  psychologist,  if  he  was  not 
always  a  straightforward  teller  of  his  tale.  And 
to  be  those  two  things  is,  I  take  it,  to  be  a  great 
novelist,  even  if  a  man  happens  to  have  at  the 
same  time  an  irritating  philosophy. 

Other  and  more  serious  charges  have  been 
brought  against  him  by  our  cautious  and  yet 
irritable  young  men.  We  are  all  tired  of  hearing 
that  Meredith  is  obscure,  that  he  sins  by  excess, 
by  a  vice  of  temperament,  by  all  sorts  of  exuber- 
ance and  eccentricity.  It  tires  us  and  it  annoys  us 
too,  for  we  feel  that  there  is  a  certain  truth  in  it. 
But  we  are  also  told  that  he  is  not  a  great  novelist, 
not  a  novelist  at  all,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he 
is  a  poet.  And  that  is  interesting.  To  be  a  poet, 
it  would  seem,  is  even  more  disastrous  than  to  be 
a  philosopher.  For,  after  all,  Meredith's  philo- 
sophy embraced  the  real.  But  his  poetry,  they 
tell  us,  spoils  all  that.  Because,  you  see,  his  lyrical 
passages  express  his  own  emotions,  and  not  the 
emotions  of  his  characters,  and  this  is  why  he  fails 
to  produce  the  "  illusion  of  reality." 

It  sounds  plausible  ;  it  looks  as  if  there  might 
be  a  certain  amount  of  truth  in  it.  But  that  is 
only  at  first  sight.  Meredith's  lyric  passages  are 
there  precisely  because  they  do  express,  as  nothing 
else  could,  the  emotion  of  his  characters.  For 
emotion,  at  its  climax,  is  powerless  to  express 

u  305 


OF 

itself  or  anything.  Lucy  in  love,  Richard  in  love, 
are  dumb,  but  all  heaven  is  sounding  through 
them,  and  it  is  that  sound  of  all  heaven  which 
Meredith's  prose  gives  us.  True,  his  method 
destroys  the  spectacular  illusion  for  a  moment,  but 
it  does  so  that  it  may  preserve  the  illusion  of  emo- 
tion, of  passion,  of  reality  at  its  highest  intensity. 
Compare  him  with  Dickens  in  this  matter  of  emo- 
tion. Dickens,  working  himself  up  into  blank 
verse  over  the  death  of  Little  Nell,  is  Dickens 
feeling  something  about  Little  Nell  and  trying  to 
express  his  feeling.  But  Meredith  in  his  "  Diversion 
Played  on  a  Penny  Whistle  "  is  rendering  the  song 
of  the  souls  of  Richard  and  Lucy.  They,  poor 
dears,  can  only  say  : 

"  '  Lucy,  my  beloved  ! ' 
"  <  Oh,  Richard  !  >  " 

It  is  all  part  of  his  art,  his  very  perfect  art. 

And  it  is  the  same  with  the  "  Comic  Spirit." 
The  Comic  Spirit  is  not  Meredith.  It  is  the  Spirit 
immanent  in  the  world  and  akin  to  Mr.  Hardy's 
immortal  Ironies.  It  is  part-creative.  Even  in 
"  The  Egoist,"  where  it  is  rampant,  its  play  is  not 
the  play  of  the  author  intoxicated  by  his  own  wit, 
making  merry  over  the  behaviour  of  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne.  It  is  not  doing  anything  over  or  about 
or  around  Sir  Willoughby.  It  is  really  in  him, 
though  he  knows  it  not.  The  Comic  Spirit  is  an 
aspect  of  the  cosmic  reality  in  which  Sir  Willoughby 
has  his  being.  For  the  essence  of  Sir  Willoughby 
is  to  be  absurd,  and  the  Comic  Spirit,  exposing  his 
absurdity,  is  the  revealer  of  the  eternal  verity  in  him. 
306 


Meredith  never  destroys  the  IC  illusion  of  reality." 
It  is  the  illusion  of  actuality  that  he  tampers  with. 
It  may  be  conceded  at  once  that  he  had  not  a 
very  keen  sense  of  the  actual,  or  of  local  atmo- 
sphere and  surroundings.  His  characters  appear  to 
be  surrounded  only  by  the  cosmic  spaces.  He 
does  not  present  them  circumscribed  by  any 
parochial  or  urban  or  suburban  boundary.  He 
seldom,  if  ever,  paints  an  interior.  His  scenic 
effects  we  remember  best  are  always  of  the  open 
air.  At  the  same  time  he  has  a  profound  sense  of 
the  bonds,  restrictions,  distinctions  of  society  and 
race  and  class.  For  these  things  work  in  the  flesh 
and  blood  of  a  man,  they  are  part  of  the  drama  of 
his  soul.  That  is  what  Meredith  shows  us  in 
"  Rhoda  Fleming,"  in  u  Beauchamp's  Career,"  in 
"  Harry  Richmond,"  and  in  "  Evan  Harrington," 
all  masterly  reproductions  of  English  social  and 
provincial  life  in  the  Victorian  age. 

But  they  tell  us  that  it  is  not  Meredith's  method 
only  that  is  all  wrong.  Art,  they  say,  is  concerned 
only  with  the  average,  the  normal  (let  it  pass),  and 
Meredith  wrote  of  extraordinary  people  in  an  ex- 
traordinary way.  This,  we  are  to  believe,  applies 
especially  to  his  women.  They  are  all  goddesses, 
or,  if  not  goddesses,  all  women  six  feet  high.  In 
this,  they  tell  us,  his  art  is  inferior  to  that  of  Mr. 
Hardy.  If  he  desired  immortality,  he  should  have 
written  about  simple  people  in  a  simple  way.  He 
should  have  chosen  for  his  tragedies  the  elemental 
passions  and  treated  them  elementally.  He  should 
have  written,  in  short,  like  Mr.  Hardy. 

On  the  other   hand,  we  also  hear  that,  setting 

307 


OF 

out  as  he  does  to  be  subtle,  he  is  not  half  subtle 
enough.  He  should,  to  produce  the  perfect 
illusion  of  reality,  have  written  more  like  Mr. 
Henry  James.  As  it  is,  he  is  a  victim  to  the 
fallacy  of  the  master  passion,  the  dominant  note 
in  character,  and  thus  he  gives  us  bare  types  in- 
stead of  the  rich,  intricate  web  of  inconsistencies, 
the  splendid  irrelevances  and  surprises  which  make 
up  individuality  in  real  life.  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne,  for  instance,  is  an  egoist,  always  an 
egoist,  and  nothing  but  an  egoist  ;  and  no  man 
ever  was  nothing  but  one  thing. 

This  is  a  strange  criticism  of  a  man  who  knew 
more  than  any  other  how  to  reproduce  the  very 
accent  and  gesture  of  the  soul.  What  justice  there 
is  in  it  applies  only  to  "  The  Egoist."  There 
Meredith  comes  perilously  near  to  the  artificial 
comedy  of  Moliere,  where  the  Misanthrope  is 
always  a  Misanthrope,  and  Tartuffe  forever 
Tartuffe.  In  real  life — that  is  to  say,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Omniscient  or  of  Mr.  Henry  James — Sir 
Willoughby  Patterne  would  not,  perhaps,  appear  so 
manifestly  and  invariably  the  Egoist  he  is.  It  is 
equally  true  that  in  real  life  if  a  man  is  an  egoist 
he  will  behave  and  he  will  feel  remarkably  like 
Sir  Willoughby  Patterne. 

And  our  critics  have  forgotten  Clara  Middleton, 
Cecilia,  and  all  the  irrelevances  and  inconsistencies 
of  the  divine  Diana.  Mr.  Henry  James  would  be 
the  first  to  take  off  his  hat  to  them. 

As  for  the  everlasting  comparison  with  Mr. 
Hardy,  it  is  futile  as  any  comparison  must  be 
between  two  masters  equally  supreme  in  their 
308 


separate  territories.  But  it  raises  interesting 
questions  :  Are  their  territories,  after  all,  so 
separate?  Is  it  true  that  Meredith  did  not  under- 
stand elemental  men  and  women  ?  It  is  certainly 
true  that  he  wrote  mostly  about  people  in  whom 
either  breeding  or  education  or  the  possession  of 
a  restless  intellect  obscures  the  working  of  the 
large  tragic  passions.  The  modern  world  is  full 
of  such,  full,  above  all,  of  such  women.  And 
Meredith  claimed  to  have  discovered  the  modern 
woman,  u  animated  .  .  .  with  the  fires  of  positive 
brain-stuff.'*  He  was  the  first  to  see  that  the 
sentimentalism  (again  !)  of  his  time  was  degradation 
to  its  women. 

Even  Thackeray,  with  his  exceeding  tenderness 
and  chivalry,  Thackeray,  who  owned  himself  afraid 
to  tell  the  truth  about  a  man,  did  not  know,  as 
Meredith  knew,  the  truth  about  a  woman.  Or 
perhaps  he  knew  it  and  was  still  more  afraid. 
Meredith  knew  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth  and 
dared  to  tell  it,  dared  to  give  the  leading  role  to 
those  large-brained,  large-hearted  women  of  his — 
Diana  and  Clara  and  Ottilia  and  Cecilia  Halkett 
and  Rose  Jocelyn,  Aminta  and  Carinthia  Jane. 
Charlotte  Bronte's  Shirley  and  the  great  women  of 
George  Eliot — Maggie  Tulliver,  Dorothea  Brooke, 
and  Dinah  Morris — are  small  beside  them.  They 
are  modern  women,  and  we  cannot  complain  of 
their  stature  as  abnormal,  for  modern  women  are 
often  six  feet  high. 

These  are  his  extraordinary  women.  But  when 
he  chose  he  could  draw  very  ordinary  women,  and 
men  too,  and  draw  them  as  the  masters  draw. 

309 


OF 

Look  at  Ripton  Thompson,  Algernon  Blancove, 
Mrs.  Lovell,  "  Emmy ''  and  Sir  Lukin,  Jenny 
Denham  ;  even  Nevil  Beauchamp  is  not  extra- 
ordinary in  our  critics'  sense ;  and  the  list  could 
be  extended  indefinitely. 

As  for  the  elemental  and  the  simple  people, 
Tess  is  not  more  elemental  in  her  tragedy  than 
Claire  Doria  Forey  or  Dahlia  Fleming,  or  even  poor 
Juliana  in  "Evan  Harrington."  And  Thomasin 
Yeobright  is  not  more  divinely  simple  than  Lucy 
Feverel,  nor  is  Rhoda  Fleming  less  captivating  in 
her  moral  beauty  than  Marty  South.  For  the  rest, 
Hardy's  women  and  Meredith's  women  are  "  sisters 
under  their  skin." 

Still,  it  is  inevitable  to  place  Hardy  and  Mere- 
dith side  by  side,  for  they  are  the  last  of  the  great 
Victorian  novelists,  and  in  many  ways  they  are  akin. 
Both  are  philosophers,  both  poets,  and  in  both  philo- 
sophy is,  like  their  poetry,  the  result  of  tempera- 
ment. Mr.  Hardy's  genius  is  bound  to  make  for 
the  simpler  and  the  larger  tragedy,  seeing  that  he 
regards  the  lives  of  men  and  women  as  so  many 
sacrifices  to  the  eternal,  insatiable  lust  of  Nature, 
and  they  themselves  as  the  playthings  of  an  im- 
placably ironic  Destiny. 

But,  to  George  Meredith,  Nature,  for  all  her 
darkness  and  austerity,  is  the  mother  of  all  joy,  of 
all  the  sanities  and  sanctities.  The  natural  love  of 
men  and  women  was  to  him  of  all  things  the  sanest 
and  most  sacred.  Their  tragedy  is  not  their  sub- 
servience to  Nature,  but  their  falling  from  her, 
their  sins  against  her  immanent  deity. 

His  poems  sprang  from  this  joy  of  his  genius  in 
310 


Nature,  its  adoration  of  all  the  robust  and  splendid 
energies  of  life.  Our  young  critics,  more  con- 
scientious than  ever  as  they  approach  this  divinest 
side  of  him,  have  suggested  that  his  philosophy 
spoils  his  poems  as  it  spoils  his  novels.  They  cite 
"  The  Reading  of  Earth  "  and  The  "  Woods  of 
Westermain."  To  be  sure,  in  all  his  great  Nature 
poems,  there  are  aisles  and  dells  of  darkness,  inter- 
minable secret  mazes,  lost  ways  of " The  Questions" 
traversing  the  Enchanted  Woods.  Yet  every  way, 
faithfully  followed,  leads  us  into  almost  intolerable 
light.  Something  happens,  and  we  find  the  Mere- 
dithian  philosophy  (which  was,  after  all,  more  an 
instinct  than  a  philosophy)  transmuted  into  the 
Meredithian  mysticism  as  by  fire.  His  message 
rings  clear  : 

"  Then  your  spirit  will  perceive 
Fleshly  seed  of  fleshly  sins 
Where  the  passions  interweave. 
How  the  serpent  tangle  spins 
Of  the  sense  of  Earth  misprised, 
Brainlessly  unrecognised, 
She  being  Spirit  in  her  clods, 
Footway  to  the  God  of  Gods." 

But  besides  "  The  Woods  of  Westermain "  and 
"  The  Reading  of  Earth  "  Meredith  wrote  "  The 
Lark  Ascending,"  that  continuous,  lucid,  liquid 
song  of  rapture  : 

"  Shrill,  irreflective,  unrestrained, 
Rapt,  ringing,  on  the  jet  sustained 
Without  a  break,  without  a  fall, 
Sweet-silvery,  sheer  lyrical." 

3" 


OF 

He  wrote  "  Love  in  the  Valley,"  and  that  pro- 
foundest,  subtlest,  most  concentrated  of  human 
tragedies,  "  Modern  Love."  There  are  lines  there 
that  gleam  and  cut  like  steel,  dividing  the  intri- 
cate web  of  soul  and  body.  It  is  the  dissection  of 
heart-nerves  and  brain-cells,  a  lacerating  psychology 
masquerading  in  a  procession  of  linked  quatrains. 

Yet  the  same  genius,  so  delicately  analytic, 
brought  forth  with  a  stupendous  and  Titanic  energy 
the  "  Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life."  Among 
these  is  "  The  Nuptials  of  Attila,"  where  the 
verse  rushes  downwards  in  tumult  and  in  torrent 
like  the  hosts  of  the  armoured  Huns,  a  poem 
barbaric,  superb,  resonant  with  the  clangour  of 
battle.  There  is  "  King  Harold's  Trance,"  a 
masterpiece  of  grim  and  terrible  simplicity.  And 
there  is  "  The  Song  of  Theodolinda,"  that 
supreme  hymn  of  the  passion  of  martyrdom,  of 
divine  ecstasy  in  torture,  of  torture  perishing  in 
ecstasy. 

The  most  perfervid  passages  of  Crashaw's  Hymn 
to  St.  Teresa  are  cold  beside  Meredith's  fire. 
And  the  art  of  it  is  transcendent.  Every  line 
glows  with  furnace-heat,  and  beats  in  its  terrible 
assonances  with  the  strokes  of  the  hammer  : 

"  This  that  killed  Thee,  kissed  Thee,  Lord  ! 
Touched  Thee,  and  we  touch  it :   dear, 
Dark  it  is  ;  adored,  abhorred, 
Vilest,  yet  most  sainted  here. 
Red  of  heat,  O  white  of  heat, 
In  it  hell  and  heaven  meet. 


312 


"  Brand  me,  bite  me,  bitter  thing  ! 
Thus  He  felt,  and  thus  I  am 
One  with  Him  in  suffering, 
One  with  Him  in  bliss,  the  Lamb. 
Red  of  heat,  O  white  of  heat, 
This  is  bitterness  made  sweet. 

"  Now  am  I  who  bear  that  stamp 
Scorched  in  me,  the  living  sign 
Sole  on  earth — the  lighted  lamp 
Of  the  dreadful  day  divine. 
White  of  heat,  beat  on  it  fast, 
Red  of  heat,  its  shape  has  passed, 

"  Kindle  me  to  constant  fire, 
Lest  the  nail  be  but  a  nail  ! 
Give  me  wings  of  great  desire, 
Lest  I  look  within  and  fail  ! 
Red  of  heat,  the  furnace  light, 
White  of  heat,  fix  on  my  sight. 

"  Never  for  the  chosen  peace  ! 
Know,  by  me  tormented  know, 
Never  shall  the  wrestling  cease 
Till  with  our  outlasting  Foe 
Red  of  heat  to  white  of  heat, 
Roll  we  to  the  Godhead's  feet ! 
Beat,  beat !     White  of  heat, 
Red  of  heat,  beat,  beat  !  " 

If  he  had  written  nothing  else,  that  one  poem 
would  be  enough  to  ensure  his  immortality. 

And  some  of  the  younger  generation,  which  is 
so  conscientious  and  so  cautious,  are  wondering 
whether  Meredith  will  live.  Posterity,  they  think, 


OF 

is  hardly  likely  to  tolerate  what  his  contemporaries 
cannot  endure.  There  is  much  in  him,  they  say, 
which  is  intolerable. 

Well,  there  is  much  in  Fielding,  in  Scott,  in 
Thackeray,  which  is  intolerable.  And  yet  they 
live.  We  still  read  Fielding,  in  spite  of  his  per- 
petual digressions,  and  the  essays  with  which  he 
dislocates  his  chapters.  We  read  Scott,  in  spite 
of  his  interminable  descriptive  passages ;  and 
Thackeray,  in  spite  of  his  digressions,  and  of  his 
mortal  tendency  to  moralise  in  all  places  of  his 
narrative.  It  is  only  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
Meredith  will  be  read  in  spite  of  everything,  even 
of  his  obscurity.  For  nothing  can  kill  the  novelist 
if  the  novelist  is  there  ;  and  in  all  Meredith's  novels 
the  novelist  is  supreme.  Who,  when  he  thinks  of 
"  The  Egoist,"  really  remembers  anything  but  the 
sublime  performances  of  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne 
or  the  ways  of  Clara  Middleton  ?  Who  would 
dream  of  judging  the  terrible  and  poignant  tragedy 
of  Richard  Feverel  by  fragments  from  "  The 
Pilgrim's  Scrip"?  Who,  as  he  sees  Diana  keeping 
her  watch  by  her  dead  friend,  or  kneeling  by  the 
hearth  of  Crossways  House,  will  be  unchivalrous 
enough  to  remember  her  as  a  woman  who 
attempted  more  epigrams  than  she  ever  brought 
to  perfection  ?  And  there  is  Emmy  under  the 
surgeon's  knife,  and  Sir  Lukin  raving  in  his 
remorse.  There  is  Emilia  forsaken  and  Dahlia 
betrayed,  and  they  are  flesh  and  blood  that  no 
a  Idea,"  no  philosophy,  can  destroy.  And  flesh 
and  blood  they  had  need  be  to  stand  in  the  presence 
of  their  creator.  Meredith's  personality  is  so  over- 

3?4 


powering  that  at  times  it  comes  between  us  and 
his  creations.  He  has  not,  as  lesser  men  have  had, 
the  habit  of  detachment.  No  novelist  has  it  com- 
pletely, nor  can  have  it.  He  betrays  his  own 
nature  more  subtly  or  more  inevitably  than  any 
other  artist,  for  he  handles  directly  the  stuff  of  life, 
and  we  know  him  by  the  manner  of  his  handling. 
It  is  impossible  to  read  Meredith  without  seeing 
him  to  be  before  all  things  clean-souled  and 
courageous  and  passionately  sincere.  We  divine 
that  there  is  no  greatness  and  no  splendour  in  his 
work  that  had  not  its  match  in  him.  His  powers 
were  finely  mingled.  His  intellect  was  blood- 
warm  and  had  a  heart  in  it,  beating  like  a  pulse  of 
flame,  and  emotion  in  him  was  a  spiritual  thing, 
as  if  the  courses  of  his  blood  flashed  light.  To 
feel,  with  him,  was  to  see  more  and  not  less  clearly. 
It  is  not  conceivable  that  he  will  not  live,  he 
who  had  more  life,  more  virile,  fertilising  energy, 
than  any  writer  of  the  two  generations  that  he  saw 
rise  round  him  and  pass  away  before  him.  Our 
own  generation  will  return  to  him,  weary  of  the 
lucid  excellences  of  the  lesser  men,  their  finished 
perfection  within  the  limits  of  the  little.  He  was 
too  great  for  us.  If  some  of  us  have  lost  sight  of 
him,  it  is  not  because  they  have  left  him  behind 
them  with  the  Victorian  era ;  it  is  because  they 
have  not  yet  "  caught  up."  He  was  too  swift 
for  us.  He  has  passed  us  by,  and  only  thus 
can  we  conceive  of  him  as  passing.  He  has  not 
yielded  up  his  fire  to  any  one  of  us.  He  is  on  far 
ahead  with  his  torch,  holding  high  for  us  the 
inextinguishable  flame. 


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that 
compel 

For  him  was  /evere  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bakes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed  .   .   . 
Than  robes  riche,  orjithele^  or  gay  sautrye. 
CHAUCER. 

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"  Lumcnifer,                                                                 6223 
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STEPHEN  StflFT  fcf   CO.,  LTD. 
10  John  Street^  Adelphi 
LONDON 

INDEX  TO  TITLES   OF 
SWIFT    BOOKS 
/              THAT  COMPEL 

PAGE 

PAGE 

Bosbury  People,  The  . 

20 

Modern  Mysticism 

25 

British  Battle  Books  . 

4 

More  Peers 

28 

Caricatures 

II 

Motley  and  Tinsel      . 

17 

Celtic  Temperament,  The  , 

27 

New  Psychology,  A  , 

10 

Civil  War. 

30 

Parisian  Portraits 

27 

Daughters  of  Ishmael 

21 

Party  System,  The     .        24, 

28 

Eight  Centuries  of  Portu- 

Passing of  the  American,  The 

5 

guese  Monarchy  . 

31 

Philosophy  of  a  Don,  The  . 

3i 

Englishman  in  New  York, 

Poems        .... 

16 

An      .         . 

12 

Prince  Azreel     . 

'3 

Eye-Witness,  The 

32 

Rector  of  St  Jacob's,  The  . 

29 

Gordon  at  Khartoum  . 

8 

Revoke  of  Jean  Raymond, 

Humour  of  the  Underman, 

The    . 

22 

The    . 

6 

Roll  of  the  Seasons,  The    . 

14 

In  a  German  Pension 

15 

Sir  Edward 

30 

La  Vie  et  les  Hommes 

7 

Some  Neighbours 

29 

Lonely  England 

3i 

Tory  Democracy 

23 

Love  in  Manitoba 

19 

Triumphant  Vulgarity 

30 

Maids'  Comedy,  The 

29 

Valley  of  Shadows,  The     . 

26 

Mastery  of  Life,'  The 

9 

Woman  without  Sin,  The  . 

18 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  ioJohnSt.,  Adelphi 

INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  OF 
SWIFT  BOOKS 
THAT  COMPEL 

PAGE 

ABBOTT,  G.  F. 
The  Philosophy  of  a  Don    31 

BEERBOHM,  MAX 

PACK 

GRIERSON,  FRANCIS 
Parisian  Portraits    .         .     27 
The  Celtic  Temperament     27 
The  Valley  of  Shadows  .     26 

Caricatures 

ii 

Modern  Mysticism  .              25 

BELLOC,     HILAIRE,     and 

The     Humour     of     the 

CECIL  CHESTERTON 

Underman  ...       6 

The  Party  System  .       24, 

28 

La  Vie  et  les  Hommes    .       7 

BELLOC,  HILAIRE 
More  Peers     . 

28 

JUVENAL 
An  Englishman  in  New 

British  Battle  Books- 

York  ....     12 

Blenheim    . 

4 

KAUFFMAN,       REGINALD 

Malplaquet 

4 

WRIGHT 

Tourcoing  . 

4 

Daughters  of  Ishmael      .     21 

Waterloo     . 

4 

KENNEDY,  J.  M. 

The  Eye-  Witness   . 

32 

Tory  Democracy     .         .     23 

BLUNT,  WILFRED  SCAWEN 

LYNCH,  ARTHUR,  M.P. 

Gordon  at  Khartoum 

8 

Prince  Azreel           .               13 

BRAGANC.A  CUNHA,  V.  DE 
Eight  Centuries  of  Portu- 
guese Monarchy  . 

3i 

A  New  Psychology          .     10 
Maids'  Comedy,  The  .         .     29 
MANSFIELD,  KATHERINE 
In  a  German  Pension      .     15 

DESMOND,  G.  G. 
The  Roll  of  the  Seasons  . 

M 

PROTHERO,  J.  K. 
Motley  and  Tinsel  .         .17 

DUKES,  ASHLEY 

RANSOM,  ARTHUR 

Civil  War 
FORD,  MAY 

30 

The  Bosbury  People        .     20 
The  Rector  of  St  Jacob's     29 

The  Revoke  of  Jean 

ROYCE,  MUNROE 

Raymond    . 

22 

The  Passing  of  the  Ameri- 

GILL, E.  A.  WHARTON 

can     ....       5 

Love  in  Manitoba  . 

IQ 

Sir  Edward         .         .         .     30 

SMITH,  PHARALL 

COLORING,  MAUDE 

The  Woman  without  Sin     18 

Lonely  England 

31 

WHITBY,  CHARLES  J.,  M.D. 

GRANVILLE,  CHARLES 

Triumphant  Vulgarity     .     30 

Some  Neighbours  . 

29 

WRENCH,  G.  T.,  M.D. 

Poems    .... 

16 

The  Mastery  of  Life        .       9 

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upon  scholarship  as  upon  the  direct  evidence  of  the 
products  and  monuments  of  the  different  peoples  of 
history,  and  the  author  has  consequently  travelled 
widely  in  order  to  collect  his  material.  The  author 
shows  how  the  patriarchal  system  and  values  have 
always  been  the  foundation  of  peoples,  who  have  been 
distinguished  for  their  joy  in  and  power  over  life,  and 
have  expressed  their  mastery  in  works  of  art,  which 
have  been  their  peculiar  glory  and  the  object  of 
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to  them  has  been  the  briefer  history  of  civilisation  in 
Europe,  in  which  the  paternal  and  filial  values  of 
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M.A.,    C.E.,    L.R.C.P.,    M.R.C.S.E.,    M.P. 
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has  faced  the  problem  in  its  widest  extension  :  Can  the 
entire  realm  of  knowledge,  and  the  whole  possible  scope 
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unanalysable  elements,  the  Fundamental  Processes  of  the 
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couched  in  simple  language.  It  will  give  a  new  impetus 
to  Psychology. 

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FACSIMILE   REPRODUCTIONS    IN   COLOUR 

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SHERIDAN,  School  for  Scandal,  Act  I,  Sc.  I. 

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directed  against  political  situations  and 
national  characteristics  rather  than  personal 
frailties,  they  yet  retain  that  quality  of 
mordant  criticism  that  is  so  prominent  a 
feature  of  this  well-known  artist's  work. 


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written  on  the  same  subject. 

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things  seen  are  brilliantly  set  down.  He  writes  with 
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AZREEL 


PRINCE 

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DIRECT— INSPIRING— COMPELLING 

The  cry  for  something  new  in  literature,  the 
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Prince  Azreel  comes  to  claim  his  place,  not  as  one 
who  has  sounded  the  depths  and  shoals  of  the  current 
modes  of  the  day,  but  as  one  entirely  careless  of  these 
things,  discoursing  freely  of  life,  easily  throughout  its 
whole  purport  and  scope. 

The  Devil  comes  into  the  action,  but  he  also  is 
new — rather  the  Spirit  of  the  World,  "man's  elder 
brother."  His  methods  are  those  neither  of  Faust  nor 
of  Paradise  Regained.  His  temptations  are  suasive, 
his  lures  less  material. 

In  the  search  for  the  Ideal  of  statesmanship  Azreel 
and  the  Devil  come  to  our  own  Parliament,  Azreel 
tilled  with  warm  enthusiasm,  high  conceptions.  They 
see,  they  learn  ;  they  discover  "types,"  and  discuss 
them.  We  find  the  Devil  at  length  defending  the 
Commons,  supplying  the  corrective  to  Azreel's  strange 
disillusions.  This  part  will  not  be  the  least  piquant. 


London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


THE  ROLL  OF 
THE  SEASONS 

Nature  Essays 

BY 

G.  G.  DESMOND 

Crown  %vo.     Cloth.     $s.  net 

A  NATURE  BOOK  FOR  TOWN  POLK 

This  book  for  all  Nature-lovers  appeals  perhaps 
most  strongly  to  those  in  cities  pent,  for  whom  a  word 
in  season  can  call  up  visions  of  the  open  moor,  the 
forest,  the  meadow  stream,  the  flowered  lane,  or  the 
wild  sea-shore.  The  extreme  penalty  for  reading  one 
of  these  spring,  summer,  autumn,  or  winter  chapters  is 
to  be  driven  from  one's  chair  into  the  nearest  field, 
there  to  forget  town  worries  among  the  trees.  The 
author  does  not  spare  us  for  fog,  rain,  frost,  or  snow. 
Sometimes  he  makes  us  get  up  by  moonlight  and 
watch  the  dawn  come  "  cold  as  cold  sea-shells  "  to  the 
fluting  of  blackbirds,  or  he  takes  us  through  the  woods 
by  night  and  shows  us  invisible  things  by  their  sounds 
and  scents.  The  spirit,  even  if  the  body  cannot  go 
with  it,  comes  back  refreshed  by  these  excursions  to 
the  country. 


London  :  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


IN  A 

GERMAN 
PENSION 

BY 

KATHERINE  MANSFIELD 

Crown  8w.     Cloth.     6*. 

DELIGHTFUL    LITERARY  NOVELTY 

Never  before  have  Germans,  from  a  social  stand- 
point, been  written  about  with  so  much  insight,  or 
their  manners  and  habits  described  with  such  malicious 
naivet£  and  minute  skill.  Miss  Mansfield's  power  of 
detailed  observation  is  shown  in  numerous  little  touches 
of  character  painting  which  enable  us  to  realise  almost 
as  visibly  as  the  authoress  herself,  the  heart,  mind,  and 
soul  of  the  quaint  Bavarian  people.  The  occasional 
cynicism  and  satiric  strokes  serve  to  heighten  but  not 
to  distort  the  general  effect.  The  one  or  two  chapters 
which  might  be  called  Bavarian  short  stories  rather  than 
sketches  are  written  in  a  most  uncommon — indeed 
thoroughly  individual — vein,  both  in  form  and  sub- 
stance. Miss  Mansfield's  style  is  almost  French  in  its 
clearness,  and  her  descriptions  will  remind  the  reader 
of  Russian  masters  like  Turguenieff. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LtD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


POEMS 

BY 

CHARLES   GRANVILLE 

F'cap  tfo.      5*.  net. 


REAL    POETIC    TALENT 

The  present  volume  is  composed  of  a  selection  from 
the  previous  poetical  works  of  the  Author,  who  is  also 
well  known  as  a  writer  of  prose.  The  distinctive 
feature  of  the  poems  in  this  collection — the  feature, 
indeed,  that  marks  oft"  and  differentiates  the  work 
of  this  poet  from  the  mass  of  verse  produced 
to-day — is  their  spiritual  insight.  Mr  Granville  is 
concerned  with  the  soul  of  man,  with  the  eternal 
rather  than  the  transitory,  and  his  perception,  which 
is  that  of  the  seer,  invests  his  language  with  that 
quality  of  ecstasy  that  constitutes  the  indisputable 
claim  of  poetry  to  rank  in  the  forefront  of  literature. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  xojohn  St.,  Adelphi 

16 


MOTLEY  A 

AND   TINSEL  thetage 

BY 

J.   K.   PROTHERO 

Crown  &vo.     Cloth.     6s. 

A  BOOK  WITH  DISTINGUISHED  NAMES 

This  story  in  serial  form  was  the  subject  of  an 
action  for  libel  founded  on  the  coincidence  of  the 
plaintiff's  name  with  that  of  one  of  the  characters.  As  a 
protest  against  the  absurd  state  of  the  law,  the  author, 
in  revising  the  novel  for  publication  in  book  form,  has 
used  the  names  of  distinguished  writers  and  journalists 
who  have  kindly  given  their  consent.  George  Bernard 
Shaw  represents  a  stage  door  keeper.  George  R. 
Sims,  in  consenting  to  drive  a  hansom,  fears  there  may 
be  cabbies  of  the  same  name.  Edgar  Jepson  is  dis- 
guised as  an  irascible  old  gentleman  of  seventy,  while 
Robert  Barr  officiates  as  stage  manager,  with  Pett 
Ridge  as  call-boy  !  Hilaire  Belloc  is  a  benevolent 
entrepreneur,  and  Cecil  Chesterton  a  fiery  tempered 
lover.  We  meet  Frank  Lamburn,  the  editor  of 
Pearson's  Weekly^  as  a  distinguished  actor,  while  Barry 
Pain  has  kindly  divided  his  name  between  an  aged 
man  of  weak  intellect  and  his  dead  son. 

This  by  no  means  exhausts  the  list  we  find  ;  we 
meet  the  names  of  well-known  journalists  and  men  of 
letters  on  every  page. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  icJohnSt., Adelphi 


THE  WOMAN 
WITHOUT  SIN 

BY 

PHARALL   SMITH 


Crown  %vo.     Cloth.     6s. 


ORIGINAL  AND    UNCONVENTIONAL 

The  central  idea  of  this  novel  is  that  in  those  cases 
in  which  the  love  of  a  man  and  a  woman  is  sincere  and 
genuine  it  is  of  necessity  sinless,  and  consequently  that 
they  should  be  free  to  indulge  it,  the  consequences 
being  faced  by  the  State.  Original  and  full  of  force, 
this  novel,  containing  as  it  does  those  elements  of 
bigness  so  rare  in  these  days,  is  a  refreshing  change  to 
the  ordinary  run  of  fiction.  With  a  pen  which  is  as 
powerful  as  it  is  restrained,  the  writer  attacks  con- 
vention and  upholds  his  own  ideas  of  freedom  between 
the  sexes. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphf 


LOVE 
IN  MANITOBA 

BY 

E.  A.  WHARTON   GILL 

Crown  &vo.     Cloth.     6s. 

A  FRESH  FIELD  IN  FICTION 

The  writer  has  opened  a  fresh  field  of  fiction 
and  has  presented  a  striking  picture  of  life  in 
the  Swedish  settlements  of  Western  Canada — 
a  district  hitherto  largely  neglected  by  novelists. 
The  Author  is  intimately  acquainted  with  the  life 
of  these  colonists,  and  has  studied  his  characters 
on  the  spot ;  while  his  local  colour  is  in  every 
way  admirable.  He  knows  the  West  and  its 
people.  And  the  people  in  his  story  are  typical 
of  those  to  be  met  with  in  every  settlement 
throughout  the  West. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


THE 
BOSBURY  PEOPLE 

A  Novel 

BY 

ARTHUR   RANSOM 

Crown  %vo.     Cloth.     6s. 

COMEDY  AND   SERIOUS    CRITICISM 

This  book  opens  with  the  appearance  of  three  young 
cyclists — an  Anglican  priest,  a  Dissenting  minister,  and  a 
young  squire  with  Agnostic  proclivities — who  collide  at  a 
spot  where  three  roads  converge.  They  are  discovered  here 
by  Sir  Samuel  Boulder,  who,  in  his  carriage,  is  returning 
from  the  railway  station  whence  he  has  sent  his  daughters 
to  the  seaside.  The  baronet  insists  on  taking  the  wounded 
cyclists  to  his  Hall  at  Bosbury,  and  afterwards  insists  upon 
keeping  them  there  until  their  wounds  are  healed.  The 
situation  is  complicated  by  the  unexpected  return  of  "  the 
girls."  The  comedy  of  the  story  is  derived  in  part  from 
the  relations  between  the  Priest,  the  Dissenter,  and  the 
Agnostic,  and  in  part  from  the  relations  between  the  guests 
and  the  "  girls."  Not  only  does  the  expected  happen,  but 
the  unexpected  in  the  betrothal  of  the  Dissenter  with  one 
of  the  baronet's  daughters.  Even  the  Rector's  wife  consents 
"  to  swallow  the  Dissenting  parson."  Beneath  the  lighter 
comedy  of  this  study  of  English  country  life  runs  a  stream  of 
serious  criticism  of  rural  conditions.  The  time  is  A.D.  1900. 


London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  lojohn  St.,  Adelphi 


DAUGHTERS 
OF  ISHMAEL 

BY 

REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 


Crown  Svo.     Cloth.     6s. 


FRANK,  DELICATE,   SINCERE 

In  this  book  the  Author  has  handled  a  difficult 
subject  with  the  utmost  of  delicacy  consistent  with 
perfect  frankness.  While  telling  his  story  fearlessly, 
he  does  so  without  sensationalism.  With  nobility 
of  manner  and  passionate  sincerity  he  relates  one  of 
the  sordid  tragedies  common  to  our  great  cities  5  but 
the  story  is  told  with  such  reserve  and  such  impartiality 
that  the  zeal  of  the  sociologist  is  never  allowed  to 
destroy  the  delicacy  of  the  artist.  Throughout  the 
book  there  predominates  the  Greek  idea  of  Fate  j 
but  there  is  also  something  better,  the  hope  of  the 
ultimate  amelioration  of  the  evils  that  the  book  so 
aptly  describes. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO,,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


THE  REVOKE  OF 
JEAN  RAYMOND 


BY 

MAY   FORD 

Crown  8v0.     Cloth.     6s. 


INTERESTING,  CULTURED,  MODERN 

This  is  an  arresting  story  of  the  psychological 
development  of  a  modern  woman.  The  problem  of 
marriage  is  presented  at  a  new  angle  and  treated  with 
the  touch  of  modernity.  A  character  more  interest- 
ing than  Jean  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  ;  cultured 
and  broad-minded,  a  woman  who  has  achieved  mental 
and  spiritual  freedom  by  a  vigorous  search  for  the 
truth,  she  devoted  her  life  to  manifold  practical 
activities  in  which  her  healthy  nature  found  the 
utmost  enjoyment.  It  was  then  that  her  tragedy 
befell  her — a  tragedy  of  temperaments — and  the 
manner  in  which  Jean  revoked  makes  a  strangely 
fascinating  story. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


TORY 
DEMOCRACY 

BY 

J.  M.  KENNEDY 

Crown  &vo.     Cloth.     35.  6d.  net 

LORDS,    GOVERNMENT,   LIBERALISM 

There  are  unmistakable  indications  that  the  system  of 
politics  at  present  pursued  by  the  two  chief  political  parties 
is  not  meeting  with  the  approval  of  the  electorate  as  a  whole, 
though  this  electorate,  as  a  result  of  the  Caucus  methods,  finds 
it  increasingly  difficult  to  give  expression  to  its  views.  In 
his  book  on  Tory  Democracy,  Mr  J.  M.  Kennedy,  who  is 
already  favourably  known  through  his  books  on  modern 
philosophical  and  sociological  subjects,  sets  forth  the  principles 
underlying  a  system  of  politics  which  was  seriously  studied 
by  men  so  widely  different  as  Disraeli,  Bismarck,  and  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill.  Mr  Kennedy  not  only  shows  the 
close  connection  still  existing  between  the  aristocracy  and 
the  working  classes,  but  he  also  has  the  distinction  of  being 
the  first  writer  to  lay  down  a  constructive  Conservative 
policy  which  is  independent  of  Tariff  Reform.  Apart  from 
this,  the  chapters  of  his  work  which  deal  with  Representative 
Government,  the  House  of  Lords,  and  "  Liberalism  at 
Work  "  throw  entirely  new  light  on  many  vexed  questions 
of  modern  politics.  The  book,  it  may  be  added,  is  written 
in  a  style  that  spares  neither  parties  nor  persons. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


THE 

PARTY  SYSTEM 

BY 

HILAIRE   BELLOC 

AND 

CECIL  CHESTERTON 

Popular  Edition,     is.  net.     Cloth,  35.  6d.  net 

AN  IMPORTANT  BOOK  FOR  VOTERS 

Mr  Belloc,  after  sitting  for  five  years  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  resigned  his  seat  at  the  last 
election  in  protest  against  the  unreality  of  Party 
Politics.  In  this  book  the  secret  collusion  between 
the  two  Front  Benches  is  demonstrated,  and  it  is 
shown  how  they  have  captured  the  control  of 
Parliament.  The  method  of  their  recruitment  and 
the  close  ties  between  them  are  described,  and  their 
reliance  upon  secret  Party  Funds,  largely  obtained 
by  the  sale  of  honours  and  of  legislative  power,  is 
made  manifest.  The  machinery  by  which  the  two 
Caucuses  control  elections,  the  increasing  impotence 
of  Parliament,  and  the  elimination  of  the  private 
member  are  carefully  analysed.  The  book  concludes 
with  an  examination  of  certain  suggested  remedies. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.;  LTD.,  loJohnSt.,  Adelphi 


MODERN 
MYSTICISM 

And  Other  Essays 

BY 

FRANCIS   GRIERSON 

F^cap  8v0.     2s.  6d.  net 

ORIGINAL,  INCISIVE,   SUBTLE,  ACUTE 

"  All  lovers  of  literature  will  be  glad  that  Modern 
Mysticism  has  now  been  restored  to  the  currency  of 
the  book  world.  ...  At  heart  it  is  c  merum  sal ' — 
the  true  essence  of  literature.  .  .  .  The  secret  of 
Mr  Grierson's  work  is  its  deep  sincerity.  Eschewing 
all  conventional  standards,  accepting  no  hypothesis 
which  he  has  not  proved  for  himself,  Mr  Grierson 
pierces  to  the  heart  of  his  themes  with  a  keenness 
which  is  almost  disconcerting.  .  .  .  No  situation  is 
too  familiar  to  be  illumined  by  one  of  his  sudden 
flashes  of  insight.  The  poise  of  his  sentences  has 
something  of  Gallic  precision  about  it ;  and  it  is 
not  surprising  that  the  savants  of  contemporary 
French  literature  have  praised  his  work  with  generous 
emphasis.  .  .  .  Such  an  influence,  working  like  leaven 
in  the  lump,  can  hardly  fail  to  make  its  presence 
appreciated." — Daily  Telegraph. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


THE  VALLEY  OF 
SHADOWS 

BY 

FRANCIS   GRIERSON 

Second  Edition.     Demy  8vo.     6s.  net 

MEMORIES   OF  LINCOLN'S    COUNTRT 

In  this  book  Mr  Grierson  recalls  in  vivid  memories 
the  wonderful  romance  of  his  life  in  Lincoln's  country 
before  the  war.  "The  Valley  of  the  Shadows  is  not  a 
novel,"  says  Mr  W.  L.  Courtney  in  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph)  "  yet  in  the  graphic  portraiture  of  spiritual  and 
intellectual  movements  it  possesses  an  attraction  denied 
to  all  but  the  most  significant  kind  of  fiction.  .  .  . 
With  a  wonderful  touch  Mr  Grierson  depicts  scene 
after  scene,  drawing  the  simple,  native  characters  with 
bold,  impressive  strokes." 

"  Told  with  wonderful  charm  .  .  .  enthralling  as  any 
romance  .  .  .  truth,  though  often  stranger  than  fiction, 
is  almost  always  duller  ;  Mr  Grierson  has  accomplished 
the  rare  feat  of  making  it  more  interesting.  There 
are  chapters  in  the  book  .  .  .  that  haunt  one  afterwards 
like  remembered  music,  or  like  passages  in  the  prose 
of  Walter  Pater."— Punch. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 


TWO    BOOKS 

BY 

FRANCIS   GRIERSON 

A  Profound  Thinker  and  Delightful  Stylist 

THE     CELTIC 
TEMPERAMENT 

And  Other  Essays 
Third  Edition.     2S.  6d. 

"I  place  these  essays  among  the  most  subtle  and  substantial  that  I  know." 
—MAURICE  MAETERLINCK. 

"  I  find  the  'Celtic  Temperament'  charming  and  full  of  wisdom.  The  essay 
that  has  happened  to  strike  me  most  is  the  one  on  '  Hebraic  Inspiration.' 
The  pages  of '  Reflections '  also  have  found  their  mark  in  me."— Prof.  WILLIAM 
JAMES. 

"Mr  Grierson  gives  us  original  and  intimate  aperfus  of  things  .  .  .  subtle 
things,  and,  as  I  say,  '  intimate ' — things  deep  down  below  the  surface  of 
conventional  thought— and  Mr  Grierson's  book  is  full  of  them.  ...  I  shall  keep 
Mr  Grierson's  book  on  the  same  shelf  as  'Wisdom  and  Destiny,'  and  'The 
Treasure  of  the  Humble.'"— A.  B.  WALKLEY. 

PARISIAN 
PORTRAITS 

25.   6d.  net 

The  Times  says:— "He  not  only  recalls  what  is  the  most  valuable  essential 
of  every  real  memory,  the  atmosphere,  the  emotional  outlook,  the  general 
effect,  but  has  also  retained  the  harvest  of  a  busy,  critical  and  very  alert  eye. 
...  He  aims  at  giving  an  edge  to  all  he  says.  .  .  .  His  touch  is  light  and  easy, 
his  insight  sure  and  his  choice  of  subject  exclusive.  ...  A  finished,  skilful, 
and  richly-laden  book." 

Daily  Express. — "  Amazingly  clear  and  acute." 

Westminster  Gazette. — "Living  memories  of  famous  people  made  unusually 
real  by  Mr  Grierson's  vivacious  art  of  writing  and  his  premeditated  frankness." 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  icjohn  St.,  Adelphi 


TWO 
BRILLIANT    COLLABORATIONS 

1.  "A  Laugh  in  Every  Line." 

2.  "  The  Thoughts  of  Thinking  Men." 

MORE  PEERS 

VERSES  BY  HILAIRE  BELLOC 

PICTURES  BY  B.T.B. 

Price  2s.  6d.  net 

"  There  is  a  laugh  in  every  line  of  the  verses  and  illustrations." — Dmily 
Express. 

"  Those  who  have  not  already  tasted  the  peculiar  humour  which  these 
collaborators  imported  into  'Cautionary  Tales  for  Children"  and  the 
'  Bad  Child's  Book  of  Beasts,"  should  by  all  means  study  the  life  history 
of  various  peers  as  recorded  in  these  brief  verses." — Times. 

2    THE  PARTY  SYSTEM 

BY  HILAIRE   BELLOC 

AND 

CECIL   CHESTERTON 

Library  Edition.     Crown  8v0.     35.  6d.  net 

No  bookof  thepresentseasonhas  been  so  much  praised — and 
so  much  reviled  :  reviled  by  most  of  the  Party  organs,  praised 
by  independent  papers.  And  yet  mark  the  agreement  of  the 
following,  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles  often  in  their  views. 

"  Embodies  the  silent  thoughts  of  almost  all  thinking  men  of  to-day." — 
The  Evening  Times. 

The  Star  says  : — "  Says  in  plain  English  what  everybody  in  touch  with 
reality  thinks." 

LORD  ROBERT  CECIL,  in  the  Morning  Post,  says : — "  So  far  the  authors 
of  '  The  Party  System '  only  say  in  plain  terms  what  everyone  who  has 
been  in  Parliament  knows  to  be  in  substance  true." 

"  A  complete  proof  of  the  necessity  of  restoring  power  to  the  people."— 
The  Daily  Express. 

London:  STEPHEN  SWIFT  &  CO.,  LTD.,  10  John  St.,  Adelphi 

33 


THREE   EXCELLENT 
WORKS   OF   FICTION 

1.  "  Clever  Characterisation'' 

2.  "A  Prodigy  of  Age" 

3.  "  Unique  Comedy" 


SOME 
NEIGHBOURS 

BY 

CHARLES 
GRANVILLE 


STORIES,  SKETCHES,  AND  STUDIES 
znd  Edition.  Crown  %vo.  6s. 

"A  pleasant  book  .  .  .  prettily  conceived 
and  told.  .  .  ." — The  Times. 

"  The  stories  are  always  interesting,  both  as 
studies  of  odd  aspects  of  humanity  and  for  the 
curious  modern  reticence  of  their  art." — The 
Scotsman. 

"'Some  Neighbours'  deserves  the  highest 
commendation." — CLEMENT  K.  SHORTER  in 
The  Sphere. 

"The  treatment  is  invariably  fresh  and 
individual  .  .  .  thoroughly  readable." — The 
Morning  Leader. 


THE  RECTOR 
OFST  JACOB'S 


BY 

ARTHUR 
RANSOM 


A    NOVEL    OF    PHENOMENAL 

INTEREST 
Crown  Zvo.    6s. 

"...  Could  only  have  been  written  by  one  who 
knows  the  outs  and  ins  of  the  latest  ecclesiastical 
controversy.  Our  wonder  is  heightened  when 
we  learn  that  it  is  the  first  book  of  one  who 
will  shortly  enter  his  eightieth  year."—  West- 
minster Gazette. 

4 '  We  can  recommend  this  book  to  all  who  are 
interested  in  religious  differences." — English 
Review. 

14  It  has  life  and  power." — Observer. 


THE 

MAIDS' 
COMEDY 


A   CHIVALRIC   ROMANCE 
IN  THIRTEEN  CHAPTERS 
Crown  8vo.     35.  6d.  net 

"The  Author  of  this  highly  entertaining, 
and  indeed  delicious,  '  Chivalric  Romance ' 
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INTER 

«*..-.       , 

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SENT  ON  ILL 

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U.  C.  BERKELEY 

LD  21A-60m-7  '66                                      General  Library 

(  Gr4427slO  )  4TuB                                                                  R**rlr*»1#»v 

YC149265 


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